SKOOT 
 
 A STORY OF 
 UNCONVENTIONAL GOODNESS 
 
 BY CORA G. SADLER 
 
 CINCINNATI: JENNINGS & PYE 
 NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 JENNINGS * PYK 
 
 FIFTH THOUSAND.
 
 O out in the alley and play, I say. There 's 
 work enough to do without taking care 
 of you. Clear out now, every last one of yer." 
 
 A couple of barefooted, bareheaded children 
 scuttled through the door which the woman held 
 open into the glare and heat of a July morning. 
 If it was hot in the city parks, where men lounged 
 on the benches, and nurse girls wearily trundled 
 baby buggies back and forth, how much more un- 
 bearable was the day in Pinch Alley, with its 
 swarms of children playing around the doorways 
 and ash-heaps ! They quarreled and wrangled, 
 while the women in the long tenement-block hung 
 out lengths of dingy washing on the pulley-lines, 
 and scolded at each other from opposite windows. 
 
 2229076
 
 4 SKOOT 
 
 The alley children were playing their favorite 
 game the one, alas ! which they most frequently 
 saw acted in earnest "playing drunk." A boy 
 of twelve years or so lay sprawling in the dirt, 
 while a girl went through certain motions at a 
 neighboring post, intended to represent ringing up 
 the "hurry-up wagon." A freckle-faced boy came 
 rushing along, dragging a board by a long rope, 
 with much clatter and confusion. The inebriate, 
 who was apparently in a heavy stupor, was tumbled 
 into this presumable ambulance, and then the 
 freckle-faced boy drove off furiously with him. 
 
 A few rounds of the play, and then the long 
 boy stood up, impatiently. "I 'm tired of this," he 
 said ; "it 's too hot for this kind of play." He drew 
 himself up slowly, like a very long, very thin, very 
 moderate Jack-in-the-box. He was grotesquely 
 arrayed in a pair of pantaloons much too long, 
 and a torn jacket much too short. He had a 
 little, old, sharp face, with the pinched, keen ex- 
 pression so often found among a great city's poor. 
 His hands were long and bony, his shoulders 
 stooped, his voice thin. In fact, everything about 
 him was thin but his hair. This was red and 
 thick, as though Nature would make amends for
 
 SKOOT 5 
 
 scantiness elsewhere, and stood out aggressively 
 in more than the four directions of the compass, 
 bristling at every spear. His extraordinary length 
 of limb, together with the unparalleled rate of 
 speed thus afforded, had won for him the name 
 of Skoot. If ever he had another name, it was 
 sunk in the slum of Pinch Alley. As Skoot he 
 was known, and as Skoot we must know him. 
 
 "I 'm goin' up to get Pansy," he said, after 
 meditatively kicking a small stone about with his 
 bare feet ; "it must be hot enough to melt cobble- 
 stones up in that kitchen. You find a shady place, 
 an' we '11 all set around, an' she '11 tell us a story." 
 
 Skoot ran nimbly down the alley, mopping his 
 face as he went, until he reached a door that 
 stood open, revealing the squalor of the lower flat ; 
 up a flight of rat-eaten stairs, rickety even under 
 the boy's light weight; over one, two, three, four 
 landings, where a door opened into a kitchen misty 
 with suds and steam. A woman bent over a tub, 
 and a little girl of perhaps eight years, with folded 
 hands and wide, violet eyes, sat on a wooden stool 
 by the window. 
 
 The woman turned on Skoot angrily. She was 
 coarse-featured and florid. By a perpetual frown,
 
 6 SKOOT 
 
 her eyebrows had become contracted until they 
 met. Glancing from her to the little girl, it was 
 plain that there could be no blood relationship. 
 
 "Now, Skoot Higgins, what are yer here for 
 again?" Mrs. Turner demanded, savagely. "Tryin' 
 to break through that stair that ye Ve cracked al- 
 ready, are yer? Or maybe you want to steal my 
 matches again for them cigar-stumps as yer for- 
 ever pickin' up in the streets." , 
 
 "Aw, gawan," replied the boy, indifferently 
 kicking a chair aside with one foot, and impudently 
 balancing himself on the other before advancing 
 into the room. "Who do yer suppose would come 
 three flights to see yer scowlin' face ? It 's Pansy 
 I 'm wantin'. Come down in the alley with me, 
 Pansy," he went on, in a different voice ; "it 's 
 that much cooler down there you M not believe it." 
 
 The child rose to her feet, and stood expectant, 
 with arms outstretched. There was a lost, pitiful 
 expression in the beautiful eyes, deep and velvety 
 as the flower whose name she wore. But it was 
 the look that the sightless have. Pansy was blind ! 
 
 Poor Pansy ! While her mother lived, poverty, 
 with its attendant hunger, privations, exposure to 
 heat and cold, had been hers; but a harsh word,
 
 SKOOT 7 
 
 a heavy hand never. The first Mrs. Turner was 
 a small, frail woman, who had sewed unceasingly 
 on "piece work" to bring the bare necessities of 
 life into the wretched home. Her husband was 
 a shiftless, idle fellow, who made a little money 
 occasionally, the greater part of which found its 
 way into the tills of one of the many saloons on 
 a near street. So little Mrs. Turner sewed on, 
 struggling with heartache and weakness of body, 
 until one day, with a hungry kiss upon Pansy's 
 face, and a desperate gathering of the little form 
 to her heart, she turned her face to the wall and 
 fell asleep asleep in Jesus ; for she was one of his. 
 The hours that followed were one long night 
 of tears for Pansy. For the future she was to 
 know grief, with no mother's hand to soothe and 
 comfort. She realized that the room was full of 
 people, many of them strangers. One man es- 
 pecially, with a loud, imperative voice, made her 
 tremble nervously. There was the sound of drag- 
 ging, as of something heavy over the bare floor, 
 the sobs of the kindly neighbor women, and then 
 Pansy was allowed to feel in the long box for her 
 mother's face. The trembling little hands crept 
 along the waist, the sleeve, until they touched the
 
 8 SKOOT 
 
 features. How cold her mother was! how still! 
 Why did she not speak to her to Pansy? Then 
 she had been roughly pushed aside ; there was the 
 sound of a hammer, and rough but kindly neigh- 
 bors led the child away. When she returned, after 
 the lapse of some hours, she ran swiftly to the 
 bed, and passed her hands over it ; then from chair 
 to chair, only to throw herself, sobbing, on the 
 floor at last. O, the utter desolation of heart, as 
 day succeeded day, and she became used to being 
 alone ! 
 
 And then one day her father had told her that 
 she had a new mother, and the child had passed 
 her hands over a strange woman's face, shrinking 
 from the rough voice and coarse features. Then 
 she had gone swiftly back to her stool by the 
 window, there to weep silently and to wonder 
 about it all. 
 
 The new wife was not slow to perceive the 
 child's aversion. It was written upon every line 
 of the sensitive face when her stepmother railed 
 and scolded, as she did every day. Neglect and 
 abuse, in all their endless and cruel manifestations, 
 were now for Pansy to know. The woman's ill- 
 feeling spent itself in curses and blows, and then
 
 SKOOT 9 
 
 the child would grope her way to the place by the 
 window, with wet cheeks and heaving breast, yet 
 making no cry. 
 
 Skoot was Pansy's one friend and protector. 
 To every one else all combativeness and ag- 
 gressiveness, to her he was all gentleness. No 
 one of the alley children ever raised a laugh 
 against Pansy in his presence. Skoot had a repu- 
 tation of being very swift and sudden in his con- 
 clusions, and there were many who had tested the 
 strength of his long right arm. 
 
 Now he led Pansy across the floor, skillfully 
 parrying with his hand the missile hurled at the 
 unconscious brown head. At the landing he 
 stopped long enough to execute another trium- 
 phant war-dance upon one foot for the benefit of 
 the angry woman within; then he gently lifted 
 Pansy, and carried her, as a mother would an in- 
 fant, down the steep stairs, into the hot, bright 
 air outside. 
 
 "Yer weigh less 'n nuthin' to-day, little one," 
 he said, as he tenderly put her down. "Let 's see 
 if I can find anything fur yer to eat." He made 
 a great show of rummaging in numerous imagi- 
 nary pockets, finally drawing out a shining early
 
 10 SKOOT 
 
 apple from a side pocket where it had been 
 officiously bulging all the time. "Why, what 's 
 this 'ere?" he said, looking at it, and pretending 
 surprise. "O yes; this is one I hooked from the 
 fruit-cart on purpose for you. Down with it, 
 quick." 
 
 But Pansy's hand refused the gift. "O Skoot, 
 that was stealing," she said, in a soft, pretty voice ; 
 "you can not go to heaven if you steal. Mamma 
 said so." 
 
 "Did she?" asked the boy, scratching his fore- 
 head meditatively. "Well now, come ter think on 
 it, that ain't the one I hooked. I et that one 
 myself. This one a man give me I mean I found 
 it, picked it up." 
 
 "Where, Skoot?" 
 
 "Er jest down by the corner. I expect it 
 must hev rolled off 'n some cart or other. Now 
 tuck it away, little un, an' do n't fret." 
 
 So Pansy ate the fruit with much relish, and 
 then, laying her hand in his, they started toward 
 the little group Skoot had left. The blind girl 
 could take no part in their rough plays, as they 
 well knew. So they gathered around her, seat- 
 ing themselves where they could draw men and
 
 SKOOT ii 
 
 figures in the dirt with their fingers, and clamored 
 for a story. 
 
 A queer little group for your Kodak, my girl, 
 you would have thought, had you come unex- 
 pectedly upon them, as did a lady in a close bon- 
 net with white ties, and who carried a basket fairly 
 dripping over with field and garden flowers. So 
 absorbed were the children in the coming story 
 that the stranger drew near unnoticed. 
 
 "Tell me," said Pansy, settling herself com- 
 fortably, "what sort of a place this is. Is it pretty, 
 is it fresh and clean?" 
 
 "No no," chorused the children, emphatically. 
 
 "It 's hotter than the equator," said Pete 
 Lawkins, who had been to grammar school, and 
 felt that the advantages of his superior education 
 should afford simile extraordinary. It had its ef- 
 fect, for none of the others knew what he meant, 
 and regarded him with looks of envious admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "The sun just pours down, and makes a feller's 
 head hot as blazes," remarked Mike. 
 
 "The babies are hall 'owlin'," contributed Jane, 
 who was Cornish, and just over. 
 
 "But I 'm going to tell you a story,'" said
 
 12 SKOOT 
 
 Pansy, "a truly story, about a beautiful place where 
 there are trees and flowers and a great river and " 
 
 "O O !" came in a delighted murmur. 
 
 "How fur off is it?" demanded practical Pete. 
 
 "It 's heaven, Pete," answered Pansy, in a 
 hushed voice, "where my mamma went, and where 
 nobody is sick, or tired, or blind. It 's the city 
 where Jesus lives." 
 
 "Pooh !" said Pete, in disdain. "That 's a mis- 
 sion story. I heerd 'em tell it down there. There 
 ain't no sech truly place." 
 
 "Yes, there is," replied the child, earnestly. "I 
 know it 's a truly place, for mamma used to tell 
 me about it and sing about it. Sometimes I dream 
 about her at night, when it 's so hot and bad here 
 in the alley, and I can see her for I am not 
 blind then walking towards me through fields of 
 flowers, and smiling at me ; and O, she is so happy ! 
 Did you never hear my mamma sing her heaven 
 song? Listen I will sing it for you." 
 
 With folded hands, and lifted face, the child 
 sang ; and the music floated out on the hot, bright 
 air, past windows and doorways, up dark stairs to 
 the upper flats where puny children cried while 
 their mothers worked; up past the tiled roofs and
 
 SKOOT 13 
 
 rows of sooty chimneys, up past all the pollution 
 and discord of earth to the very throne itself. 
 
 " My heavenly home is bright and fair, 
 Nor pain nor death can enter there ; 
 Its glittering towers the sun outshine, 
 That heavenly mansion shall be mine." 
 
 Not until the last note died away was the 
 deaconess noticed. Then the freckle-faced boy 
 made a sudden dive, not at her, but at the flowers 
 she carried. With a whoop they surrounded her, 
 stretching out eager, unwashed hands. After 
 satisfying them, Miss Percy seated herself by 
 Pansy, who had not moved or spoken. The 
 deaconess gave the flowers into her hands roses, 
 geraniums, violets, heliotrope sent into the 
 Deaconess Home that morning by a country 
 League. Pansy pressed them to her cheeks, her 
 lips, enjoying their fragrance and coolness. 
 
 If the bright-faced girls who had gathered and 
 sent the flowers could have seen the eagerness 
 of the grimy hands, the delight of the children's 
 faces! Pete was gingerly holding a cluster of 
 heavy, white verbenas. He had not thought be- 
 fore of his hands being dirty; but as he looked 
 at the waxy blossoms, he muttered, "My, ain't
 
 14 SKOOT 
 
 they clean, though !" and straightway went to 
 smearing his hand on his mouth and rubbing it 
 on his trouser's leg, with the purpose of some- 
 how making it, too, clean. 
 
 Miss Percy sat beside Pansy for a long time, 
 holding her hand, and drawing from her her 
 pathetic history. Truly, to this woman had come 
 the coveted gift of "skill in comfort's art." She 
 talked wisely and lovingly to the child of heavenly 
 things, marveling greatly at Pansy's spiritual in- 
 sight and comprehension of eternal truths. 
 
 A little later she climbed the stairs to visit 
 the stepmother. A great pity for the child swept 
 over her as she looked past the hard-faced woman 
 holding the door open into the wretched room 
 beyond. As she turned away, the thought im- 
 pressed her as it did so often in her work what 
 would the coming of Jesus into this home mean? 
 What could Jesus do for this home? 
 
 Going down the last stair, she encountered a 
 man just starting to go up a gross, heavy, blear- 
 eyed fellow who muttered without looking at her. 
 Passing on to the children, they told her it was 
 Pansy's father who had just gone in.
 
 SKOOT 15 
 
 Such a father! Such a home! And such a 
 child! One of the Lord's little ones strayed into 
 a dark, sad corner of earth. Could nothing be done 
 for her ? Must this flower of the Divine Gardener 
 droop and die in the foul, murky air of Pinch 
 Alley?
 
 ON the afternoon of the same day three girls 
 sat together in a luxuriously-appointed room 
 
 in one of the great houses of M Avenue. It 
 
 was distinctively a girl's room, as evidenced by 
 the dainty belongings scattered lavishly about. 
 The carpet of blended russet and moss reminded 
 one of wood-paths in October; the walls and 
 draperies were in soft, harmonizing tones of 
 green; a bed artistically draped in Swiss, filmy as 
 meadow mist; an open writing-desk, with a set 
 of swinging book-shelves above it ; a couch heaped 
 with pillows of silk and down; in the light of the 
 western window a Madonna haloed with the added 
 glory of a gathering sunset. 
 
 Margaret Doane, the young mistress of all this 
 16
 
 SKOOT 17 
 
 elegance, rocked listlessly by the window, a dis- 
 contented expression upon her face. She was the 
 only daughter of a lawyer who had attained un- 
 usual eminence ; from childhood she had been ac- 
 customed to these surroundings. 
 
 Not so her two friends, Molly Weston and 
 Dora Clark. Molly, the youngest of the three, 
 had just been released from a stuffy fourth-story 
 office for a vacation. Molly was rosy, dimpled, 
 and captivating. Her curly head, used to bending 
 over the typewriter, was brimming with fun and 
 innocent girlishness. 
 
 Dora Clark, the third of our girls, had just re- 
 turned from college with the coveted parchment 
 duly dated and certified. But as yet she had not 
 decided on her future. 
 
 A few years before, these girls had stood side 
 by side in the graduating class of the high school. 
 Later there came a day when they again stood 
 together at the altars of the church, and took 
 upon themselves the white vows of discipleship. 
 But many things had entered in to draw them 
 away from the spiritual life. With Margaret it 
 had been worldly parents and associates; with 
 Molly, the wearing monotony of office work, amid
 
 i8 SKOOT 
 
 companionship, at the best, unprofitable; while 
 Dora's steady eyes had been long fixed upon the 
 goal just attained to the exclusion of spiritual 
 growth. Being a thoughtful girl, the one-sided- 
 ness of her life was becoming apparent to her. 
 
 They were a very serious group of girls that 
 afternoon. Somehow the conversation had drifted 
 back to old-time reminiscences and school-day an- 
 ticipations ; then again to the present, and Dora 
 had spoken of the emptiness of her so-called re- 
 ligious life. An Epworth League topic card on 
 the table suggested her question. 
 
 "And do you still go to League meetings, 
 Margie?" she asked. "And do you, Molly? It 
 is an age since I have been. Of course, we had 
 chapel worship at college ; but somehow my mind 
 formed the habit of going over class work and 
 recitations at that time. And now, when I go to 
 church, it seems as if I can not frame my mind 
 to worship at all." 
 
 "I go, once in a while," said Molly. "The fact 
 is, the meetings do n't seem what they used to be 
 when we all went together. I wonder if they 
 have really changed or I have? I generally try 
 to attend consecration nights, and answer to roll-
 
 SKOOT 19 
 
 call with a Scripture verse or quotation, or some- 
 thing of that sort." 
 
 "But surely," remonstrated Dora, "that is not 
 an ideal consecration-meeting for any one? Con- 
 secration ! I can remember when the word meant 
 so much to me, and, I think, to us all. In some 
 way we have lost the joy and confidence of the 
 Christian experience we then had. I wonder how 
 it came to be so. And yet we are all members of 
 M Avenue Church. It seems like a mockery." 
 
 "What would you advise," laughed Molly, 
 "that Dr. Armor mark our names around with 
 black ink, 'Backslidden ?' " 
 
 "That 's just where we are, to be honest," re- 
 turned Margaret, gravely. "We are worse; we 
 are pretenders of what we acknowledge we do not 
 possess, and hence we are hypocrites. Now 
 there 's our League pledge," she went on, taking 
 the little card in her hand, and turning to the 
 cover. "What could be more inclusive? 'I will 
 earnestly seek for myself what? Pleasure, ad- 
 miration, culture, satisfaction of self in its thou- 
 sand forms? No. 'I will earnestly seek for my- 
 self the highest New Testament standard of ex- 
 perience and life.' How high is it, I wonder?
 
 20 SKOOT 
 
 How much of personal earnestness do we feel in 
 this matter? 'And do what I can to help others 
 attain.' Here we touch upon influence. This one 
 sentence suggests so much that is uplifting." 
 
 "The fact is," she continued, "that I have n't 
 kept myself up to the pledge, or to any standard. 
 It takes resoluteness and strength to keep our- 
 selves up. It is like the time when a party of us 
 were upset in the river, when the sudden wind 
 struck the boat. I just held on to the side, and 
 held on to keep up. If I had lost my grip, I 
 should have gone down. I think it is so in our 
 Christian lives. It takes purpose and will to hold 
 on; and not having that, or at least not using 
 it if we did have it, we have lost our grip, so to 
 speak. For a few years my life has been purpose- 
 less, just purposeless. If I had some work to 
 do, like you, Molly, I should be more contented. 
 A college course is out of the question for me, 
 because, as you know, my eyes are not equal to 
 the strain. Music, painting, and those 'frills' are 
 tediousness itself, even what little I do of them. 
 I believe," with a laugh, "I should have been a 
 poor girl. The lazy comfort of my life is purely 
 selfish, and unfits me for anything useful."
 
 SKOOT 21 
 
 Molly glanced longingly around the exquisite 
 room, and then at Margaret's face. Margaret read 
 her thought. 
 
 "Nothing of temporal blessings are of use un- 
 less they help us to be better. These pleasant 
 things do not satisfy me. I am not sure that they 
 even help me. They are only temporalities, at the 
 best. When I first became a Christian, it seemed 
 as if the emptiness of my life were taken away, and 
 I had something satisfying. But the last time I 
 went to prayer-meeting the prayers were so long 
 and the testimonies so poky that I decided not to 
 go again. Dr. Armor spoke to me about it one 
 day at Sunday-school I do still go there and I 
 told him the prayer-meeting made me fidgety ; and 
 then he seemed so grieved that my conscience 
 troubled me for having spoken so." 
 
 "I have a bright idea!" exclaimed Molly, tap- 
 ping the brown curls that were dancing dis- 
 tractedly as she nodded her head; "a bright idea, 
 just the one with which to meet this occasion. 
 You two fortunate ones have all the time there 
 is for a vacation, while I have n't had one before 
 for two years. Now the point is to crowd as 
 much as possible into this summer see? Now
 
 22 SKOOT 
 
 do n't twist, Dora. It really is n't becoming, and 
 I am getting along to my idea. You know notices 
 are out for a Chautauqua Assembly at Idlewood 
 Grove. Now Idlewood is a place to dream about. 
 I 've been there ; but you have n't little lake, cov- 
 ered with pond-lilies, and boats to be had at 
 twenty-five cents an hour, thick pine woods, with 
 summer cottages and a circle of tents, birds, squir- 
 rels, and all that sort of thing. Now would n't it 
 be a good thing for us all to pack up and rent 
 one of those same delightful cottages for the sum- 
 mer, enjoy the pines, the boating, and the the 
 meetings for a while, and just have a genuine 
 good time?" 
 
 The girls caught eagerly at the suggestion. 
 Molly's dimples grew positively wicked as she saw 
 the success of her plan. 
 
 "And we must take turns housekeeping," she 
 went on. "Girls always do at Chautauqua. I shiver 
 when I think of Margie's pancakes when it comes 
 her morning. Seriously, Margie, do you bake 
 pancakes or boil them? I wonder if you know." 
 
 The girls all laughed, and at once began mak- 
 ing plans, in enthusiastic girl fashion. 
 
 "Mamma will not approve, of course," said
 
 SKOOT 23 
 
 Margaret ; "she thinks camping is dreadfully com- 
 mon and coarse. But she will be willing for me 
 to go, for she knows I did n't want to go to the 
 beach this summer. The boom of the surf sounds 
 like cannon, and the rocks and sand are so hot. 
 Yes, I thing a pine grove will be a delightful 
 change." 
 
 "Then it is settled," said Dora, "we three are 
 to rent a cottage and take possession. The cot- 
 tages are furnished, of course ? Well, and you will 
 see to engaging it, Molly? You know the place 
 better than we do." 
 
 "I '11 do it," returned the energetic Molly. "We 
 must be ready to migrate next Tuesday morning. 
 We must take our mackintoshes, and umbrellas, 
 and rubbers, for at Idlewood it rains all the time " 
 
 "O, how horrid!" interrupted the others. 
 
 "That the sun does n't shine," finished Molly, 
 severely. "Then there is something else I was 
 going to speak of. You remember Maud Percy, 
 don't you?" 
 
 "Maud Percy? O yes," replied Margaret. 
 "She graduated from high school the year that 
 we entered. She is some years older than we are. 
 She went away to some Christian training-school
 
 24 SKOOT 
 
 a Deaconess Home, I think it was some three 
 or four years ago." 
 
 "Well, she is here in the city," rejoined Molly, 
 "wearing a little close bonnet with white ties, and 
 she has grown so pretty! She is a full-fledged 
 deaconess now, and has been working here in the 
 city for some time. Strange we have n't seen her ! 
 But then we do n't go to prayer-meeting, and Sun- 
 day mornings one can never tell who is at church. 
 But next Sunday evening she is going to tell the 
 people all about deaconesses and their work. And 
 I see by the Chautauqua program that she is to 
 speak there, too. We must all hear her. Won't 
 it be pleasant to meet her again ? She was always 
 so sensible and sweet." 
 
 A bell tinkled somewhere below stairs, and 
 Margaret insisted on her friends going down to 
 dinner with her. They locked arms, and went down 
 the broad stairway, past the open drawing-room 
 door, disclosing the elegant appointments of wealth 
 and culture ; thence on to the dining-room, where 
 Margaret's parents awaited them. 
 
 Mrs. Doane was a querulous, doll-like little 
 woman, fond of diamonds and dinner-gowns. Her 
 hands sparkled with gems as she languidly greeted
 
 SKOOT 25 
 
 her daughter's friends. Mr. Doane was handsome, 
 portly, and jolly. The light from the western win- 
 dows glittered upon the silver and cut glass. A 
 black serving-man, mute as the servitor of the 
 Lily Maid of Astolot, waited deftly upon the needs 
 of the company. 
 
 "You will have wine, Miss Dora?" said the 
 master of the house, as a glass of the glowing 
 liquid was placed beside her. "No? You and 
 Margaret will agree, for she refuses it altogether. 
 Do you belong to the Abstinence Society too, 
 Miss Molly?" 
 
 Poor Molly! Her breath came hard. She 
 loved this sumptuous elegance with all her giddy 
 heart. There was a young man in the office whose 
 breath frequently smelled of wine. She reached 
 out her hand for the glass, but Margaret's eyes 
 met hers with such entreaty that she crimsoned 
 deeply, and declined it. But the pleasure of the 
 dinner was gone for her. This home, with all its 
 elegance what was it worth compared with eter- 
 nal glory ? And why should she so suddenly have 
 bethought herself of the lowly life of One who, 
 as it is recorded, had not where to lay his head?"
 
 "T WANT to talk with you a few minutes to- 
 J- day, Margie," said Mrs. Doane at breakfast 
 the next morning. "I have something interesting 
 to tell you. Mr. Merton called on your father yes- 
 terday, and asked permission to speak with you 
 personally this evening." 
 
 "I do not care to see him," replied Margaret, 
 coldly. "He can have nothing to say to me which 
 I care to hear." 
 
 "Margaret !" 
 
 "It is quite true," said the girl, steadily. "Of 
 course, I have been expecting this, for Guy Merton 
 is too conceited to know when he is repulsed. I 
 despise the fellow too heartily to even receive him. 
 
 26
 
 SKOOT 27 
 
 With his eyeglass, and squinting eyes, he irritates 
 me." 
 
 "Margaret, he is an only child, and his father 
 is a millionaire !" 
 
 "If he be a billionaire, it would be nothing to 
 me, mamma. As far as may be, I desire to please 
 you, and be obedient to your wishes; but this is 
 time and breath wasted." 
 
 "You talk folly, folly of the extremest kind," 
 said her mother, bitterly. "Pray, has the thought 
 ever come to you that if you go $n refusing offer 
 after offer, you will be an old maid?" 
 
 "Very likely I shall be, mamma." 
 
 "An old maid," repeated Mrs. Doane, im- 
 pressively ; "a woman without a husband, without 
 any establishment of her own. Mrs. Peabody's 
 daughters have each married rich men, and they 
 had n't nearly the chance you have. Laura Welton 
 is pigeon-toed and has red hair, but her cards are 
 out for engagement to Lawrence, the banker." 
 
 "That old man!" Margaret spoke scornfully. 
 "That old man, who has buried two wives already. 
 Laura is not a day older than I am. To think 
 of marrying a man older than my father!"
 
 28 SKOOT 
 
 "She will have a magnificent establishment," 
 retorted Mrs. Doane. "She will have jewels, silks, 
 servants what could she wish for more? What 
 more could any girl in her senses want? It is 
 positively shocking, Margaret, how you put aside 
 every chance. It is surely time you were making 
 plans for yourself. You are nearly twenty-four. 
 What possible objection can you have to Mr. 
 Merton? With his money, think what sort of an 
 establishment you will have ! You would outdis- 
 tance these other girls immeasurably. He is edu- 
 cated, belongs to one of the most aristocratic 
 families in the State, as well as the most select 
 clubs, and is recognized everywhere as a young 
 man of great fortune." 
 
 "I know that he has money, or will have, 
 mamma. Perhaps I do not appreciate money be- 
 cause I have always been surrounded with the 
 luxuries it procures. But I would never so dese- 
 crate God's law as to be joined to a man for his 
 wealth. I know when a girl marries a rich man 
 she is envied and admired, even though the man 
 she marries be old or villainous or idiotic. None 
 of these things matter if he has money, but every- 
 body smiles and says, 'Didn't she do well?' This
 
 SKOOT 29 
 
 fellow Merton is a shallow fop, with no more 
 brains in his head than in his feet. Surely, mamma, 
 you know I should be wretched if I should ac- 
 cept him. Let us not talk about it further. Papa 
 knows how I feel about it, for I have already 
 told him." 
 
 "Your father has no more sense than you 
 have," snapped the mother. "Not an ounce more. 
 I had to exert myself last evening to make up 
 for your father's indifference to him, lest his feel- 
 ings should be hurt." 
 
 "Your exertions were unnecessary, mamma," 
 returned the girl, wearily. "You could not hurt 
 his feelings. He has no more sensibility than a 
 frog. And now, shall we call this matter settled 
 between us for all time?" 
 
 "If you will be so ungrateful, so foolish, so 
 cruel !" sobbed her mother, bringing to light a 
 lace handkerchief, which she rubbed against her 
 eyes. "To think of your throwing away a million ! 
 To think of the compliments and congratulations 
 I should have received on marrying you so well! 
 How every one would have envied you and me !" 
 
 Margaret left the room, and, in her haste to 
 reach her own apartment, almost ran into her
 
 30 SKOOT 
 
 father, who was in the hall, making ready to go 
 out. He smiled knowingly as Margaret threw 
 herself into his arms. 
 
 "Of course you do n't want the young puppy," 
 he said ; "do n't be bothered about it. You are 
 father's girl, and you shall stay in the old home 
 until you go of your own will. Your mother is 
 dazzled at the prospect of a union of fortunes, that 
 is all." 
 
 He kissed her and went cheerily out. Left 
 to herself, the forenoon dragged heavily. Finally 
 she put on her street dress, and started for a 
 walk in the city park. 
 
 It was a hazy, cloudy day, with just a suspicion 
 of rain in the air. She seated herself on a settee 
 under one of the trees, listlessly watching the 
 nursey maids with their white caps and aprons, 
 as they wheeled their tiresome charges back and 
 forth. 
 
 An electric car swung rapidly by the railing 
 near which she sat. There were shop-girls, clerks, 
 business men going to lunch, presumably; and a 
 group of tattered children, precariously kept in 
 place by a lady with white ties. 
 
 "A deaconess," murmured Margaret; "and
 
 SKOOT 31 
 
 she is bringing a lot of those horrid tenement 
 children here. O," as she got a glimpse of the 
 face, "I do believe it is Maud Percy. She has 
 grown pretty, as Molly said. I wonder if she will 
 remember me at all." 
 
 She stood smiling as Miss Percy came down 
 the walk, keeping her flock together. 
 
 "Do n't pull Mary's hair again, Bob," she said, 
 "for I see Mary's brother is getting ready to pull 
 yours, if you do. Set the basket down there, 
 Johnny boy. That is right. Why, Margaret, 
 Margaret Doane, surely this is you?" 
 
 "This is I, surely," responded Margaret, 
 laughingly. She took the outstretched hand, and 
 was conscious of a desire to kiss the wholesome 
 face. "I have been watching you ever since your 
 car rounded the corner. How are you, and how 
 do you enjoy your work? I never saw you look 
 so well." 
 
 "You see, I have lots to do," replied Miss 
 Percy, seating herself beside Margaret, yet not 
 forgetful to keep an eye on her young charges. 
 "Polly," to a very little girl, staggering under the 
 weight of a very big baby, "do n't drop the baby 
 into the pond; nor into the lunch basket, either,"
 
 32 SKOOT 
 
 she added, as Polly made a violent lunge in the 
 opposite direction. "Put him down here in the 
 grass where he can roll, and I will give him a 
 cooky from the basket. There, he '11 do nicely. 
 What was I talking about, Margaret? O, yes, I 
 remember. You see there is a large family of us 
 in the Home, but there is more than enough 
 work for all." 
 
 "You love the work, I am sure," said Margaret, 
 wistfully. "You look so restful and contented. 
 But seeing so much of poverty and suffering as 
 you must, do you never get weary and blue ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Miss Percy; "yet I think that 
 many things conspire to make us blue. The 
 weather, a headache, a sense of helplessness when 
 we see a great need all of these things, I believe, 
 have a bearing upon our feelings that only the 
 heavenly Father can rightly estimate. But how- 
 ever the malady is caused, I have an exellent recipe 
 for it. When I feel discouraged, I start right off to 
 find some one who is a shade more discouraged 
 than I. You remember Miss Havergal's sweet 
 lines : 
 
 ' Seldom can a heart be lonely, 
 If it seek a lonelier still?'
 
 SKOOT 33 
 
 It is a blessed lesson to learn, that the dear Father 
 gives us the sunshine while we are trying to let 
 the light into some darkened heart. And then, 
 you know, we do not walk by sight. Ours is the 
 larger privilege, the higher path, of walking by 
 faith. Sometimes we can not see the way, or can 
 not even feel the clasp of the Savior's hand, but 
 may say to our souls, 'If I can not feel, I know he is 
 here by my side, for he has promised never to leave 
 nor forsake me.' Perhaps that is just the time 
 when we may honor the Master by rejoicing in his 
 promised presence, rather than grieving over our 
 own feelings. The great secret is not to look at 
 ourselves, but to look away to Jesus. There! 
 Now I have preached you quite a little sermon," 
 she said, gayly. 
 
 "I needed it," reponded Margaret, seriously. 
 "Do you suppose, Miss Percy, that anybody can 
 be really happy if his energies are not centered 
 on some line of work? I feel the need of a pur- 
 pose in my life." 
 
 A few skillful, sympathetic questions, candidly 
 answered, and Miss Percy felt that she under- 
 stood just where the girl was, spiritually. She 
 longed to help her, but, feeling that she could not 
 3
 
 34 SKOOT 
 
 speak freely with the care of the children upon 
 her, decided to wait until another day. Besides, 
 she wanted an opportunity for prayer with this 
 weak disciple. 
 
 "My days are well filled," she said, "but I 
 would so like to spend an hour with you to- 
 morrow. Can't you come to the Home some- 
 time in the morning? To-morrow is home-day 
 for me, at least until noon. Plan to lunch with 
 us, and I will introduce you to some of our 
 workers. Our superintendent, Miss Lane, is a 
 beautiful woman, made so by suffering. Some 
 time I will tell you her story. But you will 
 come ?" 
 
 Margaret gratefully accepted the invitation so 
 cordially given. Consulting her watch, she found 
 that her return car would pass in a couple of 
 minutes. As she rose to go, she put her hand in 
 Miss Percy's, saying, "I have felt the need of a 
 strong friend. I am so glad to know you again." 
 And walking rapidly to the crossing, she boarded 
 the car with a lighter heart than she had known 
 that day. 
 
 But the morning found her in the clutches of 
 a nervous headache, and unable to meet her ap-
 
 SKOOT 35 
 
 pointment at the Deaconess Home. So she sent 
 a message, and quietly waited for the pain to 
 spend itself, comforting herself with the thought 
 that to-morrow was Sunday, and she could hear 
 and greet this new friend, who was also an old 
 one, at that time. 
 
 At last Sunday evening came. The great audi- 
 torium was thronged. The soft tones of the 
 pipe-organ trembled upon the air. As Margaret 
 entered her pew, she was conscious of the pres- 
 ence of a woman wearing the white ties, seated 
 beside the pastor. 
 
 M Avenue Church took a special in- 
 terest in the speaker of the evening, for she was 
 one of its own girls, who had gone away to fit her- 
 self for the more active Christian work. There 
 were those present who remembered her as a 
 little girl in the Sunday-school, and had solic- 
 itously watched her development into a strong 
 Christian character. 
 
 When she arose to speak, with just enough 
 visible embarrassment to add to her attractive 
 personality, a hush settled over the house. She 
 told them of the associations and duties at the 
 training-school, and of the way God had led her
 
 36 SKOOT 
 
 into the work. She took them through many a dark 
 alley and by-street, into reeking chambers where 
 Death, in hideous guise, claimed his own. She 
 opened the doors of homes of extremest deg- 
 radation and poverty, and revealed to them the 
 children of these unfortunate ones, born and bred 
 in perpetual vice and misery. Then she took them 
 to an alley of their own city, and told them of 
 Pansy her blindness, her polluted environment, 
 and her dead mother's hymn. 
 
 As Margaret watched the power of the speaker 
 deepen with her earnestness, and noted the sym- 
 pathetic reponse of the people, her heart became 
 conscious of its hunger. Ah, it must be beauti- 
 ful to walk with Jesus every day; to go on his 
 errands to the shunned and downcast; to speak 
 of him with burning heart and fervent lips, as did 
 this woman ! 
 
 After the benediction, Molly Weston made 
 her way to Margaret's side. The dimples were 
 dancing in alluring fashion. Margaret did not 
 fancy the appearance of the young man with her, 
 but Molly wasted no time in introductions. 
 
 "Yes, I have been struck with another idea, 
 Margie," she laughed, merrily. "Why can't we get
 
 SKOOT 37 
 
 Miss Percy to subjugate the formidable step- 
 mother you know she can do anything and let 
 us take the little Pansy into the woods with us?" 
 
 "Your last idea is the best of all, Molly," 
 said Margaret, approvingly. "It is just the thing. 
 I know Dora will like it." 
 
 Molly clasped her hands gleefully. "I just 
 want to hug the poor little thing," she said. "I 
 do n't know what we can do about clothes. Of 
 course the child has nothing fit to wear." Then 
 to her mind came a sudden remembrance of a 
 certain drawer in her mother's room, wherein lay 
 daintily-embroidered frocks and underclothing, 
 yellowing from disuse. They had belonged to the 
 little sister, a child of about Pansy's age, who 
 had slipped away from them three years before. 
 
 "I will talk with mamma," she said. "If she 
 could only feel that the little garments would 
 help some other little one, I think she would let 
 us have them for Pansy. Poor mamma! How 
 many tears have fallen in that drawer!" Then 
 she added, with a change of tone, "I will see you 
 in the morning, Margie. Good-night." 
 
 Miss Percy readily volunteered the service de- 
 sired, and, by great deftness, succeeded in secur-
 
 38 SKOOT 
 
 ing the stepmother's permission to lend Pansy 
 for a while. She led the child away to a near 
 street, where they took a car for the Home. 
 
 Pansy's hand lay still in that of the dea- 
 coness. What a little hand it was, Miss Percy 
 thought, so thin, so helpless, so trustful ! 
 
 There was a young man in the car, and the 
 only available seat for the blind child was beside 
 him. He was undersized, with a squint and eye- 
 glass, and had a peculiar mark, like a birthmark, 
 upon his face. He seemed very restless, as if 
 fearing contamination from the unconscious 
 child of the tenements. Finally, after a few un- 
 easy turns, he went outside to the platform. Miss 
 Percy looked after him, amused at the feeling he 
 had manifested; but Pansy still clasped the hand 
 of her friend, and was unconscious of it all.
 
 IN the room which Miss Percy occupied with 
 another deaconess, a pretty confusion of lit- 
 tle girl's belongings lay heaped on the bed. 
 Daintily-fashioned garments of rose-color and 
 blue, a sheer white Swiss with silk sash, a wide hat 
 with mull ties and tiny rosebuds all these, and 
 much besides, had been sent from the drawer 
 long closed in Molly's home. 
 
 If Mrs. Weston had taken a secret melan- 
 choly satisfaction in cherishing the garments her 
 little one had worn, she now found a larger and 
 truer comfort in thus turning them to a better pur- 
 pose. To seal sorrow in the heart, and there 
 cherish it, is human; it will inevitably blast and 
 wither the life like an imprisoned sun. To open 
 the soul in service, is to radiate sympathy to others 
 
 39
 
 40 SKOOT 
 
 who suffer, and is divine. The most absolute sor- 
 row is not selfish. 
 
 For some time Molly had been walking im- 
 patiently back and forth. In spite of the placid 
 assurance of the white-faced clock on the mantel, 
 and the testimony of the watch at her belt, she 
 was sure that the car was late. Just as she was 
 expressing her convictions for at least the twen- 
 tieth time, there was the clanging of the car bell, 
 followed by the sound of the latch key in the door 
 below. In another moment Miss Percy entered, 
 leading Pansy by the hand. 
 
 Molly's warm heart went out impulsively to 
 the little unfortunate. She gathered Pansy in 
 her arms, while the tears filled her eyes. The 
 child listened intently to the tones of her voice, 
 as though she would judge of her new friend in 
 that way, and passed her hand lightly over her 
 face. Then, as if satisfied, she quietly put her arm 
 around Molly's neck, and, resting her head 
 against her shoulder, sat thus contented, with no 
 further demonstration. 
 
 A bath awaited the child in the next room, and 
 soon the pitiful, thin little body was stripped of its 
 coarse clothing. There were marks of abuse every-
 
 SKOOT 41 
 
 where, and the soft hair was almost hopelessly 
 neglected and tangled. But by much patience, 
 the brown curls at last were parted, and knotted 
 on either side with bright ribbon. 
 
 It was a long time before she was "finished," 
 as Molly expressed it. But when she was dressed 
 at last, one might have looked long upon her 
 without recognizing the shrinking, wretched, 
 cowering child of Pinch Alley. Molly danced 
 about her, clapping her hands in delight. 
 
 "If she could only see the pretty things her- 
 self," she said. "That floating white dress makes 
 her look like a spirit-child in a cloud. Her face is 
 heavenly as an angel. O Miss Percy !" she stopped 
 with a sudden choking in her voice, "something 
 must be done. She must not go back to that 
 dreadful alley." 
 
 Just then there was a violent clattering and 
 confusion down stairs, as though the building had 
 been charged from without with a battering-ram. 
 A loud, angry voice was heard above the con- 
 fusion. Miss Percy and Molly ran to the head 
 of the stairs where they could look down. 
 
 One of the deaconesses was holding the hall 
 door open. Indeed, she could not shut it, for a
 
 42 SKOOT 
 
 boy of ten or a dozen years, very much gone to 
 arms and legs, very dirty and very much excited, 
 interposed his thin body between the door and 
 casing. 
 
 "No, I won't go," he shouted, savagely, "un- 
 til I 've found her, an' found out what yer goin' 
 to do with her. One of them there white-bowed 
 women took her off when I was out shinin'." 
 
 "Shining?" repeated the deaconess, interrog- 
 atively, and in effort to save time. "Shining? 
 Shining what?" 
 
 "Huffs," said the boy ; "feet, gent's shoes, that 
 is, of course ; and when I got back, No. 2 that 's 
 her stepmother said she 'd shet her up ; but some 
 of the fellers in the alley said that one o' them 
 there white-bowed women had tooken Pansy off." 
 
 "It 's Skoot," murmured Miss Percy, as she 
 ran swiftly down the stairs. "It is all right," she 
 smiled to the bewildered deaconess at the door. 
 "I know this boy. Come right up, Skoot. You 
 shall see Pansy. She i3 going out in the country 
 with some kind ladies, and we are going to try 
 to find her another home. Pansy has talked much 
 of you, and we tried to find you that she might 
 say good-bye before we left the alley."
 
 SKOOT 43 
 
 All this time she was leading him up the stairs, 
 and along the upper hall, where several doors 
 stood open. The appointments of the Home were 
 plain enough, but it looked like fairyland to Skoot. 
 By the time they reached Miss Percy's door, he 
 was speechless. 
 
 Such a pretty place, with a carpet and a white 
 bed ! Skoot had never before seen a bed like this. 
 There was a little girl in the alley who had spent 
 several weeks in the hospital, and she had cried 
 at leaving her white bed, and had described it 
 many times since to the alley children. Skoot 
 observed a strange lady arranging a rainbow- 
 tinted mass of pretty clothing, and a little girl, in 
 a white dress, sat in a low rocker by the window. 
 
 Skoot's quick eye took her in with the rest of 
 the room, and then he turned indignantly on Miss 
 Percy : 
 
 "Do n't try to fool me," he broke out angrily, 
 "'cause if Pansy is in this here house, I 'm goin' 
 to find her, if I have to smash into every one o' 
 them there fine rooms, I will." And Skoot doubled 
 his grimy fists, and looked very disagreeable in- 
 deed. 
 
 Miss Percy stepped to the rocking-chair, and
 
 44 SKOOT 
 
 lightly touched Pansy's arm. "Pansy," she said, 
 gently, "Skoot is here." 
 
 But the child had almost thrown herself in the 
 direction of Skoot's voice. She clasped her hands 
 about his neck, and whispered many endearing 
 words. 
 
 "Dear, kind, good Skoot. I did want to see 
 you before I went away with the kind lady. We 
 went all over the alley, but we could n't find you. 
 Why do n't you speak to me, Skoot ?" 
 
 "Gee!" said the boy, coming out of his as- 
 tonishment much as he would a plunge in cold 
 water. "Gee! ain't yer fixed, though, little one? 
 No 2 herself would n't know yer. Yer look like 
 them there pictures of angels in the mission," he 
 went on, in a reverent voice. "There ! Do n't 
 touch me. Yer '11 get all dirty," as a new thought 
 struck him. 
 
 "O, but I want to touch you, Skoot, because 
 I can't see you, you know. Sit down here with me, 
 and tell me everything. O, I wish you could go 
 with us to the beautiful place the ladies have told 
 me about." 
 
 Molly had been looking on with amazement, 
 as well as interest. Now she spoke to Skoot.
 
 SKOOT 45 
 
 "What did you say your name was?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Didn't say," replied the boy, laconically. 
 
 "O, I mean what is it, anyway?" she persisted. 
 
 It was impossible to withstand Molly. Skoot 
 regarded her half curiously, half approvingly, for 
 a full minute before he again spoke : 
 
 "Skoot," he said, at last. 
 
 The irrepressible Molly giggled. "Skoot," 
 she repeated. "That is a funny name." 
 
 "There 's them as is funnier," rejoined Skoot, 
 loftily. "There 's Mutton and Squeaky and 
 Meachy and Noodles and Muggins, and Rags an' 
 Tatters them 's the twins they 're all kids in our 
 alley." 
 
 Here Miss Percy drew Molly from the room, 
 leaving the two children together. 
 
 "She '11 get dreadful mussed up," said Molly, 
 outside ; "but we do n't care, do we ? Did you 
 ever see such a young savage? Who is he her 
 brother? I didn't know she had one." 
 
 "Not her brother, only an unfortunate waif, 
 like herself," answered Miss Percy. "He is known 
 as a hard boy. He kicks around the streets, black- 
 ing boots and doing errands; he swears like a
 
 46 SKOOT 
 
 pirate, and fights like a highwayman; he plays 
 cards, smokes cigar stumps whenever he can find 
 them, and- does everything you would expect of 
 him but one he won't drink. Pansy told me his 
 father got killed in a drunken brawl, and Skoot 
 won't even go to the saloons to get beer for his 
 brother, with whom he lives. In short, he is a 
 special object of care to the police, the terror of 
 the alley, and Pansy's most valiant friend and 
 protector. He has taken many a beating for her. 
 She has told me so much about him that I am 
 almost as deeply interested in him as in her." 
 
 "There is a strong affection between them," 
 said Molly. "I verily believe he would have come 
 up the stairs over the deaconess at the door. 
 What a perfect young savage ! He makes me 
 feel creepy all over just as if I wanted to wash 
 my hands. But did you say that Dora and Mar- 
 garet were coming here to-morrow morning, and 
 we were all to start from here?" 
 
 "That is the plan, and, dear Molly," laying a 
 light hand on the girl's shoulder, and looking 
 earnestly into her face, "I have been praying that 
 it may be a blessed time to us all, profitable in 
 every way. Perhaps there are lessons to learn
 
 SKOOT 47 
 
 at Idlewood that the Master can best teach us 
 when we turn aside to rest. He said to his dis- 
 ciples, 'Come ye yourselves apart, and rest a 
 while.' Sometimes, in the rush of daily work, we 
 are drawn unconsciously into follies or dangerous 
 friendships." 
 
 "Dangerous friendships!" Molly's cheeks 
 flamed as she thought of Jack Rivers, her office 
 acquaintance. Had Miss Percy ever seen them to- 
 gether she wondered ? Well what then ? He was 
 fine looking, well-dressed, with polished society 
 ways. Yet in her heart Molly knew that he was 
 fond of the theater, dance, card-table, and wine. 
 Was his a "dangerous friendship?" 
 
 At noon of that same day, Rivers ran lightly 
 down the steps of the building where he clerked, 
 almost upsetting Guy Merton, whose feet at the 
 best never seemed to have a very strong hold upon 
 the pavement. Merton's cane was knocked from 
 his hand, and his eye-glass dangled distractedly 
 from its chain. He looked up angrily into the 
 face of the man who had so seriously interfered 
 with his dignity. 
 
 "Aw, Rivers, is it you? Can't you see a fellow 
 a yard ahead of you ? What 's your hurry ?"
 
 48 SKOOT 
 
 Rivers laughed as they strolled along together. 
 "I was thinking of to-night," he said, gayly. "I 'm 
 going to take the prettiest little girl to the theater. 
 Works in our office." 
 
 That afternoon Dora and Margaret came to 
 the Home in a delightful flutter of preparation 
 for the morrow. They found Miss Percy dressed 
 to go out. Like Molly, their quick sympathies 
 went out to the unfortunate child. 
 
 "She is not the only one whose sufferings would 
 touch your hearts," said Miss Percy, "if you were 
 only brought face to face with them. This is my 
 calling afternoon. Perhaps you girls would like 
 to go with me? You would get a better under- 
 standing of 'how the other half lives' than all the 
 literature in the country can give." 
 
 Molly was too taken up with Pansy to leave 
 her, and chose rather to spend the hot hours in 
 the quiet room with her. New thoughts were 
 awakening in her mind, aroused either by Miss 
 Percy's words or Pansy's spiritual face, she could 
 not tell which. She thought seriously of canceling 
 her evening engagement. She sat studying 
 Pansy's face, realizing dimly that heavenly things 
 seemed nearer in her presence.
 
 SKOOT 49 
 
 Skoot had departed, fully reconciled to the 
 loss of Pansy for a while. His mind was still in a 
 muddle regarding her transformation. 
 
 "If I wuz as good a friend to Pansy as I allus 
 thought I wuz," he muttered, as he went down the 
 street swinging his bootblack kit, "I 'd be mighty 
 glad fur her to get away from Pinch Alley alto- 
 gether. An' so I would be, only I 'd like to have 
 her somewheres where I could see her once in a 
 while." 
 
 Then he looked down scornfully at his rags and 
 dirt. "Poh, Skoot Higgins," he ejaculated, in 
 contemptuous self-apostrophe, "who do yer s'pose 
 would let you inter their house ? You 've got a bad 
 record, Skoot, an' yer look it. Look like it might 
 be the smallpox, or the malary, or sich. Ah ! 
 There 's two gents as look like they might like a 
 shine." He walked up to Merton and Rivers, who 
 had just sauntered round a corner. 
 
 "Shine, sir?" he said, looking first in one face, 
 then the other. "Shine?" 
 
 Merton submitted languidly, and watched 
 Skoot curiously as he began. 
 
 "What a bony hoodlum, Rivers," he com- 
 mented. "The South Sea cannibals would go 
 4
 
 50 SKOOT 
 
 hungry if they had to dine off of him. Upon my 
 word," slowly raising his eyeglass, "I believe it is 
 some sort of an electricized skeleton !" 
 
 Skoot glanced keenly at Merton as he pocketed 
 his nickel, and turned away. "What an ugly mouth 
 that feller's got!" he thought. "Looks like he 
 could bite anybody with them there white teeth 
 of his 'n. Got a scar on his face, too."
 
 IT was yet early in the afternoon when Miss 
 Percy and the two girls started out. After 
 leaving the car, they walked what seemed an 
 interminable distance through a close, dirty sec- 
 tion of the city. The streets were narrow, the 
 houses tall, and had the appearance of being 
 propped against each other as if to prevent their 
 toppling over. A group of cheaply-dressed girls 
 were standing on a corner jesting noisily with a 
 young fellow who had just stepped out of a saloon, 
 wiping his mouth with his hand. Our girls dis- 
 liked to pass them, fearing some rough or sneer- 
 ing remark ; but they were surprised at seeing 
 the entire group move quietly aside, allowing them 
 to pass without comment. 
 
 Si
 
 52 SKOOT 
 
 "It is always so," said Miss Percy. "The white 
 ties are our best protection in this district. The 
 deaconesses pass in and out without insult." 
 
 By this time they had reached a tall frame 
 building, larger than most of the others. It looked 
 very black and rickety. 
 
 "There are several calls that we must make 
 here," said Miss Percy. "The old building was 
 formerly used for offices, but being pronounced 
 unsafe, the rooms were rented out to very poor 
 people for a pittance. The stairs are broken away 
 in places, and the old shell trembles in evfery wind ; 
 but of course it is to the owner's profit to rent 
 it rather than have it pulled down, as it should be. 
 There are twenty families in this house. We can 
 not call on them all, but we will see as many as 
 possible." 
 
 The girls restrained a natural inclination to 
 turn back, and followed their leader into a nar- 
 row, din'gy hall, very black and smoky. Many 
 doors opened from either side. At one of these 
 Miss Percy rapped lightly, and, in response to a 
 hoarse "Come in," they entered. 
 
 There was only one window, and that broken 
 and wretchedly dirty. The wall-paper, faded so
 
 SKOOT 53 
 
 as to render its pattern indiscernible, was festooned 
 with cobwebs and hung in shreds. Dora almost 
 shrieked as a great gray rat scurried across her 
 feet and into a hole in the decayed floor. A 
 miserable cot, with no covers but a foul quilt, 
 stood in the corner, and on this lay a creature, 
 hardly to be called human, with a pipe in its mouth. 
 Two yellow fangs protruded from the shrunken 
 gums, and the wrinkled lips leered horribly. Hard, 
 wicked lines had stamped themselves on the face, 
 which the girls were horrified to find was that 
 of a woman. 
 
 "Well, how are you to-day, Grandmother ?" in- 
 quired Miss Percy, advancing toward the bed. 
 
 An unintelligible growl issued from the 
 woman's lips. "Ho! ye are back again, are yer? 
 Did n't I tell yer I wanted none o' yer gapin' an' 
 yappin' here?" 
 
 "Is there anything I can do for you, Grand- 
 mother ? Would n't you like me to fix your bed, 
 or get you some fresh water?" 
 
 "Water, my dear, is bad fur the stummik, very 
 bad," she answered, with a hideous leer and an 
 entire change of tone. "But in the coobard, my 
 dear, is a pail, an' just 'round the corner is the
 
 54 SKOOT 
 
 beer-shop, an' in yer purty purse, my dear, sure 
 there 's a nickel. Think on what ye could be doin' 
 for a poor lone old woman, as has been a widdy 
 for fifteen years, an' whose stummik is pizened 
 entirely wid water." 
 
 "No, Grandmother, you know I will not get 
 you beer. Do n't coax me to every time I come. 
 Have n't they told you that you will dre soon ? 
 How will it be with your soul when you give an 
 account of your life ? Won't you ask Jesus to for- 
 give your sins and cleanse your soul before it is 
 too late ?" 
 
 The creature swore a horrible oath, and tore 
 at the quilt, shrieking and foaming. "Do n't you 
 come here with yer lyin' face," she screamed. 
 "Who's goin' to die? I ain't I ain't! I won't 
 die! I won't!" 
 
 "Let us go now, girls," said Miss Percy; "but 
 1 '11 be coming again soon, Grandmother, and re- 
 member I 'm praying for you every day." 
 
 Of such compassion is ever the Christ contact 
 with the fallen and shunned of earth. 
 
 Both Dora and Margaret were very pale. They 
 had never looked on such as this before.
 
 SKOOT 55 
 
 Across the passage they entered another room, 
 in size and shape the counterpart of the othei. 
 Here there was no bed, only a pile of straw and 
 old clothing, on which lay a man of thirty or there- 
 abouts, wasted almost to the bone. He raised 
 himself, coughing painfully. 
 
 "You 've been a long while comin', 5 ' he 
 gasped ; "it 's close to-day ; seems like I can't 
 get my breath." 
 
 "Take this," said Miss Percy, producing a flask 
 and glass from her satchel. Tenderly raising the 
 sick man, she held the stimulant to his white lips. 
 "There ! now you will feel better," she said, with 
 evident sympathy. "Is the pain pretty bad to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Pretty bad here," indicating a spot near the 
 collar-bone. "I Ve been a-dreamin' of the old 
 farm, an' the way the wind is a-blowin' across the 
 fields. But I shall never see it again, never." 
 
 "But there is a better country, Jim, you know. 
 Is your hope bright to-day? Do you feel Jesus 
 with you?" 
 
 "That 's all the comfort there is. I Ve been 
 a wild boy and broke my mother's heart. She
 
 56 SKOOT 
 
 went to heaven praying for me. But Jesus is 
 good, merciful. Sometimes I can almost see 
 him, he comes so near." 
 
 "We still want you to go to the hospital, Jim," 
 said Miss Percy. "There you can be taken care 
 
 of so much better. The M Avenue League 
 
 want to bear your expenses, and I know you would 
 be so comfortable." 
 
 But the man shook his head. "No, no, I 
 could n't leave Mary. She works out all day, and 
 nurses me nights. I could n't stand it not to 
 have Mary comin' in; since the little feller died, 
 she clings to me more than ever. We '11 keep 
 together as long as we can." 
 
 "Then at least you will let the League send 
 you a bed, with covers and pillows," urged the 
 deaconess. "I have told them about you and your 
 wife, and I think they will find some other work 
 for her, and find you another home." 
 
 "They are very kind," said the sick man. "If 
 only they would look out for Mary after I 'm gone, 
 and help her some. We can't afford to pay 
 higher rent, an' what the wife earns will hardly 
 buy food and medicine/' 
 
 "She is a true wife," said Miss Percy, warmly.
 
 SKOOT 57 
 
 "We will try to help her right away. She does n't 
 look strong enough to go out washing every day. 
 Now we must go; but I will leave this cordial 
 right here where you can reach it. And I will 
 leave this paper, too. You might like to read a 
 little when you feel better. Now shall we have a 
 prescription from the Great Physician, and a word 
 of prayer together?" 
 
 She procured a Bible, and instinctively turned 
 to the fourteenth chapter of John, that inex- 
 haustible fountain of comfort to so many thirsty 
 souls. Both girls knelt as she prayed, earnestly 
 and confidently, for this one who was soon to 
 stand before his God. 
 
 "What wretchedness !" whispered Dora, as they 
 again passed into the hall. "And yet love can keep 
 alive in such a place as this ! He must love his 
 wife, to speak of her as he did. There is a look 
 on his face, in spite of everything, that is n't all 
 unhappiness." 
 
 "I never supposed poor people could be happy 
 at all," said Margaret. 
 
 "O yes, every one may be happy," rejoined 
 Miss Percy. "God intended that to be our normal 
 condition, both here and eternally. But the spring
 
 58 SKOOT 
 
 of happiness must be from within, not without, as 
 we imagine. He knows he is going to die, but 
 that does not rob him of his Christian joy. You 
 know 
 
 'Jesus can make a dying bed 
 Feel soft as downy pillows are.' 
 
 But here is a door we must enter." 
 
 The door was tightly shut, and there was no 
 response to their rap. There was a sound within 
 of incessant moaning, now and then rising sharply 
 into a wail, and then again sinking away into a 
 deep groan. 
 
 Pushing open the door, they entered. A woman 
 was pacing to and fro, her hands tightly clasped 
 before her. She took no notice whatever of their 
 entrance. A rude box lay on the floor, half cov- 
 ered with a sheet. A glance into it disclosed the 
 features of a dead infant, coarsely garbed for its 
 last sleep. 
 
 The deaconess gently touched the mother's 
 shoulder. "The little one is safe in heaven," she 
 said, tenderly, "and will never know hunger or 
 cold or trouble. It is one of the Shepherd's little 
 lambs, and is waiting in his arms for you." 
 
 But the poor mother could only point wildly
 
 SKOOT 59 
 
 at the box. Like many another who weeps, she 
 could not look beyond the grave to the Everlast- 
 ing Arms. 
 
 Miss Percy spoke gentle words, words that 
 might have fallen on the sore heart like healing on 
 a wound ; but the heart was closed, the ears were 
 deaf. She did not seem to hear or comprehend 
 in the least. Miss Percy could only commit her 
 to the Great Comforter. As they went out, she 
 again resumed her walking and moaning. 
 
 "Only Jesus can help her, and she will not let 
 him," said Miss Percy, sadly. "We can only pray 
 for her by ourselves." 
 
 "One would almost think that a mother would 
 be grateful to have her child taken out of such 
 a wretched place," said Dora, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Ah, but you do not know a mother's heart," 
 answered the deaconess. "Of course, there are 
 mothers who beat and abuse their children; but 
 sometimes the child is the only bright spot in the 
 lives of these women. A mother's heart can break 
 in these tenements as elsewhere. If we could only 
 help them to be Christians! We will make only 
 one more call here, and that will be up four flights." 
 
 They were bidden "Come in," and entered a
 
 60 SKOOT 
 
 room like the others, yet how unlike! The walls 
 and floor were spotless, a bright geranium 
 bloomed in the clear window. The hearth was 
 swept, and the bed neatly made. 
 
 A queer little woman was pasting heels at a 
 table. She was very small, almost a dwarf. As 
 she rose to greet her callers, she was seen to be 
 a cripple, with one limb painfully shorter than the 
 other. She had little, wrinkled hands and bright 
 blue eyes, smiling pleasantly under her snow-white 
 hair. She greeted her visitors courteously, with 
 an air of much refinement, and invited them to be 
 seated. 
 
 "If the young ladies will sit on the bed," she 
 explained, "and the lady have the chair. I do not 
 often have as many callers. It puzzles a body to 
 know just what to do ; but you are very welcome, 
 nevertheless." 
 
 "And how are you to-day, Mrs. Walsh, and 
 how is your daughter?" inquired Miss Percy. 
 
 "Alice gets tired in the shop, and I sometimes 
 get tired at home," said the old lady ; "but we have 
 many pleasant hours together. Alice is a good 
 girl, and between us we can keep the wolf away. 
 Sometimes I think of my poor hip, so badly
 
 SKOOT 61 
 
 twisted and out of place, and I just wonder what 
 the Lord can expect of me with such an afflic- 
 tion. Just to get strength of soul to bear it, I 
 suppose. Sometimes I ask what I shall do with 
 this trouble, this burden laid in my path. And 
 something in my soul says, 'Lift it and carry it ; 
 it will bring you blessing.' You will read and pray 
 before you go?" 
 
 Miss Percy turned the marked pages of the 
 Bible handed her, reading here and there. "I will 
 not leave you comfortless ;" "I will never leave thee 
 nor forsake thee ;" "My grace is sufficient for 
 thee;" "As thy day thy strength shall be;" and 
 other like precious words. Then she prayed, and 
 the Spirit filled the room. Soon after, the visitors 
 left, with a promise to come again soon. 
 
 Out into the street again, through cross- 
 streets and alleys, and the deaconess knocked at 
 the door of a little, tumble-down house, where, 
 despite the heat, the shutters were closely drawn. 
 Rank weeds grew around the door, and the place 
 had the appearance of being uninhabited. 
 
 As Miss Percy knocked, there was a sound of 
 hurried movement within, together with a scraping 
 noise, as of a box or something heavy drawn
 
 62 SKOOT 
 
 across the floor. After a little while the door was 
 opened cautiously, just a very few inches, show- 
 ing the weazened features of a little, yellow, 
 shrunken old man. 
 
 "It 's you, is it ?" peering sharply around the 
 corner with his wolfish eyes. "Who are these with 
 you? Ladies, young ladies! This day this house 
 is honored. The room is very small and poor, 
 my dears." With that he opened the door barely 
 wide enough to allow them to enter singly. "Very 
 small and poor, and one of you must sit on this 
 box. There 's not much furnishing. I am very 
 poor, my dears, very poor." 
 
 "Have you had any food to-day?" demanded 
 the deaconess, so sharply that both the girls looked 
 at her in astonishment. "Have you eaten any- 
 thing strengthening since I was here last week?" 
 
 The old man wriggled horribly, and began to 
 whine dolorously. 
 
 "Bread costs so much, my dear," he whim- 
 pered; "and meat O, poor folks can not buy 
 meat ! Why, ever so small a piece, not over sweet, 
 they ask me ten cents for ten cents.! They try 
 to steal from the old man because he is so poor, 
 too poor to buy;" and he rubbed his skeleton
 
 SKOOT 63 
 
 hands together, and then against his mouth, as if 
 they were some unfamiliar food, and he a cannibal, 
 tasting them. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Miss Percy, more sharply 
 than before. "Get yourself something to eat, open 
 your shutters, and your Bible, too, and let some 
 light into your dark house and darker heart. You 
 will die here alone some time." 
 
 "But I am so poor," he whined, still writhing 
 hideously. "When an old man is so poor, my 
 dear" 
 
 "We must go now," interrupted Miss Percy, 
 rising. "I hoped to find you more sensible to-day, 
 after being so sick for want of food. See! I will 
 leave you this fruit, and this bundle of papers." 
 
 "How abrupt you were !" said Dora, when they 
 were once again in the street. "I would hardly 
 have known it was you, speaking so harshly. And 
 the old man is so wretchedly poor, too !" 
 
 "Poor? yes, he is poor poor with the utmost 
 destitution of soul," answered Miss Percy. "But 
 you must learn to bestow your sympathies in the 
 right place. I staid with him one whole day 
 when he had starved himself sick, and I saw his 
 box, and his bag of money !"
 
 64 SKOOT 
 
 "A miser!" gasped Margaret; "a real, horrible 
 miser! O!" 
 
 "A real, horrible miser," repeated Miss Percy, 
 laughing. "His plan is to make the city support 
 him, so he can keep his money untouched. He 
 has no relative in the world, as far as the city 
 authorities can find out. I ought n't to have left 
 him the fruit there are others more worthy but 
 I dislike to visit him without bringing something." 
 
 And meanwhile the old miser had locked and 
 barred the door, and watched them down the street 
 through a crack in the shutters. Then he moved 
 his miserable cot to one side, disclosing an iron 
 ring in the floor. Lifting this, he stooped down 
 and drew out a wooden box, with brass bands and 
 rivets. He seated himself beside this, and opened 
 it, letting the gold pieces run through his fingers, 
 pressing them to his eyes, his face, his bosom, as 
 if the sensation of contact were most exquisite 
 pleasure. Thus he sat muttering, trembling, 
 chuckling, whispering, worshiping. More than 
 once he laughed noiselessly, pointing to the papers 
 Miss Percy had left. 
 
 "The ragman will give me a penny, and I will 
 sell them to him/' he muttered, gleefully. "Aha
 
 SKOOT 65 
 
 the deaconess will give the old man a penny, a 
 penny to go with these!" and as the bright coins 
 sifted through his fingers it would be hard to tell 
 which of the two was yellower the round pieces 
 or his hands. Angels might have looked on him, 
 and wept to think which was harder the gold 
 or his heart.
 
 GUY MERTON lounged uneasily in his room 
 the next morning. He had just opened his 
 mail, and one special communication had made the 
 young fop uncomfortable. The truth was, though 
 the son of a reputed millionaire, his personal af- 
 fairs were in very bad condition. More than this, 
 he knew, as did his gouty and choleric father, that 
 the family fortunes were deeply involved. In- 
 judicious and complicated business ventures were 
 behind all this. 
 
 The young man's habits had always been reck- 
 lessly extravagant. All his life his doting mother 
 had encouraged him to be a spendthrift, and his 
 father had footed the bills without protest. But 
 of late there had been some passionate interviews 
 between father and son. Guy was fully cognizant 
 
 66
 
 SKOOT 67 
 
 of the impending ruin. Notwithstanding this 
 knowledge and his father's repeated admonitions, 
 for some months he had been going deeper and 
 deeper into debt. The old gentleman absolutely 
 refused to pay, and his creditors were becoming 
 importunate. 
 
 Altogether he was in a very bad humor as 
 he savagely tore up this very plainly -worded 
 "dun," which unequivocably gave the choice of 
 payment within a stated time and legal procedure. 
 Rumors of his father's financial downfall were 
 being whispered abroad. He fancied he could de- 
 tect a falling off in the obsequiousness of the mer- 
 chants with whom he had dealings. 
 
 "It 's all up with me," he muttered, gloomily, 
 "unless I can marry old Doane's daughter. Con- 
 found the girl ! she 's as haughty as if she knew 
 I was a beggar. But they do n't suspect a thing 
 over there, or my lady's mamma would not smile 
 on me as she does. I must have money. That 
 thousand must be paid in thirty days. Now the 
 riddle is, Where can I get it? The governor 
 draws the line sharp. I owe various amounts to 
 nearly all the club fellows. If within the next few 
 days the society column had a paragraph announc-
 
 68 SKOOT 
 
 ing my engagement with Doane the lawyer's 
 daughter, I could get Doddridge & Co. to accept 
 a note." 
 
 Remembering at this point what he was pleased 
 to term Margaret's "confounded uppishness," he 
 chewed his finger-ends savagely. Finally he went 
 down the stairs and took his hat from the rack. 
 Slamming the heavy doors behind him, the foot- 
 man, for some reason, not being on duty, he ran 
 down the marble steps, with its crouching bronze 
 lions guarding each side, and joined the early 
 pedestrians on the sidewalk. 
 
 He walked aimlessly, occasionally greeting an 
 acquaintance, and after a little found that his steps 
 were directed toward the Union Station. By this 
 time the sun was quite high, and he lounged into 
 the general waiting-room to rest. 
 
 There was the usual stream of people passing 
 in and out, doors slamming, babies crying, mothers 
 scolding cabmen shouting without the railing, 
 country people, uneasy about their baggage, run- 
 ning excitedly hither and thither. Merton looked 
 on it all with a half-scornful interest, until a new 
 presence aroused him, and he sat upright. 
 
 Three young women, accompanied by a
 
 SKOOT 69 
 
 deaconess and a little girl, had passed him where 
 he sat gnawing the head of his cane. They had 
 not noticed him, and were finding seats on the 
 opposite side of the waiting-room. They were 
 conversing merrily among themselves and seemed 
 especially solicitous about the little girl, who clung 
 closely to the lady's hand. 
 
 Of course Merton's eye centered upon Mar- 
 garet. How fresh and sweet she looked in her 
 plain linen traveling dress and sailor hat ! How 
 devoted she was to the pretty child ! Merton 
 ground his teeth as he thought of Doddridge & 
 Co. If she would only look at him like that ! 
 
 All at once he noticed a new arrival in the 
 group opposite. A bootblack had joined them, and 
 was bending down to the little girl, and talking 
 earnestly with her. The others chatted freely with 
 him, and seemed to make much of him. 
 
 "By my stars, if it 's not my bootblack," mut- 
 tered Merton ; he of the long arms and legs. What 
 can he be doing here, and why should Margaret 
 Doane notice him?" 
 
 Just then Pansy chanced to turn her wide, 
 sightless eyes in Merton's direction, so that he 
 could see her face. Some dim remembrance of a
 
 70 SKOOT 
 
 tenement child in a street-car with a deaconess 
 flitted across his mind ; but he dismissed it at once. 
 This was not the child. But who was she, and 
 where were they all going ? 
 
 He had not long to wait for an answer to his 
 last question. The broad-shouldered, deep- 
 chested, wind-voiced giant whose business it was 
 to announce the trains, advanced to his usual post, 
 and began calling, in an elaborate crescendo : 
 
 "Train ready for , , , , Idle- 
 wood, 9.15 ; track No. 8. All abo-o-a-ard !" 
 
 The girls made a rush for satchels, boxes, and 
 umbrellas, Miss Percy having previously secured 
 their tickets. Such a merry time as they had of 
 it, and how tender they were of the little girl ! 
 The bootblack watched them through the gates, 
 jauntily swinging his rimless hat. Then he turned 
 soberly away, with a sudden lugubrious drooping 
 of countenance. 
 
 He moved slowly off, through the waiting- 
 room, and out to the street again through a side 
 door. On the sunny sidewalk a group of street- 
 gamins had collected. One of them had picked 
 up a half-dollar on the crossing, and the rest were 
 trying to make him realize his duty toward them.
 
 SKOOT 71 
 
 He was a little fellow, and some of those around 
 him, who were bigger boys, had been threatening 
 him if he did not "treat." They had knocked his 
 hat off, yet he stood, flushed and defiant, but with 
 no sign of surrendering. Just then his eye fell 
 on Skoot emerging from the door of the depot. 
 
 He raised his hands to his lips, giving that 
 peculiarly shrill whistle that only a street boy can 
 execute perfectly. He knew Skoot would take 
 his part. 
 
 One of the other fellows also recognized the 
 bootblack. "It 's Skoot Higgins," he announced. 
 "He 's got just five thousand legs, an' every one 
 of 'em is like a cannon goin' off. I tell ye, fellers, 
 git!" 
 
 They scattered in all directions, leaving the 
 small boy master of the situation. Skoot ap- 
 proached slowly. 
 
 "What was it about, Pete ?" he asked. 
 
 Pete showed him the half-dollar, and explained 
 the difficulty. He was grateful for Skoot's pro- 
 tection, and begged him to have half the money; 
 but Skoot turned indifferently away. 
 
 "Aw, gawan," he said, "I do n't want none o' 
 yer money."
 
 72 SKOOT 
 
 Pete looked curiously after him. "Somethin 's 
 the matter with Skoot," he thought. 
 
 And something was the matter with Skoot. 
 Somewhere back there was a strain of good Scot- 
 tish blood in his veins, and of late it had been 
 asserting itself in vague discontent and aspirations. 
 New thoughts had been coming to him. The alley 
 and street life, as it was revealed to him, all at 
 once became intolerable. He thought of the men 
 whom he knew, brutalized by liquor and poverty; 
 of the women, degraded into all that was most 
 unwomanly. He hated Pinch Alley with a fiery, 
 overwhelming fury; hated its foul air and fouler 
 tongues. 
 
 A boy, perhaps two or three years his senior, 
 swung easily along, in the suit of a high-school 
 cadet. He was whistling the air of a popular col- 
 lege song. Skoot looked after him with a strange 
 bitterness of heart. He thought of this boy's 
 probable home its comfort and refinement. In 
 future years some position of honor and influence 
 would undoubtedly be his. He would be a man 
 this other boy to be respected. And then came 
 Skoot's swift second thought. Could he be such 
 a man, too? Could he? The odds were over-
 
 SKOOT 73 
 
 whelming, but the more he thought, the louder 
 the newly-awakened voice within asserted itself. 
 
 Merton had been an amused spectator of the 
 little byplay with Pete. He decided to follow 
 Skoot at a little distance, partly from an idle 
 curiosity, and partly because he would as soon go 
 in one direction as another. He watched the boy 
 seat himself on a shady step, throw his kit aside, 
 and give himself up to what seemed unhappy re- 
 flection. He saw the high-school boy go by, 
 whistling and swinging his books by a strap, and 
 noted the look that Skoot sent after him. He had 
 made up his mind to speak with Skoot, and find 
 out what he could of Margaret Doane's plans, 
 when down the street came a cloud of dust, and in 
 advance of it a troop of shrieking, howling, whoop- 
 ing street hoodlums. Just ahead of them was the 
 bent figure of an old man, who was running to 
 get out of their way. 
 
 The boys were pelting their victim with stones, 
 bricks, and every available missile, and screaming 
 most opprobious epithets. He hobbled tremblingly 
 on, his head bare, and his thin locks streaming be- 
 hind him ; with one hand he grasped his stick, and 
 vainly tried to shield himself with the other.
 
 74 SKOOT 
 
 "Martin the miser!" screeched the gamins, clos- 
 ing upon him ; "ho, Martin, hand over some o' yer 
 shiners. We '11 pelt yer ef yer do n't. Give it ter 
 him, fellers !" 
 
 Not until the shrill cry had been several times 
 repeated did Skoot recognize the faltering old 
 man. Then like a flash he was up and off, straight 
 into the midst of the crowd, where his long arms 
 and legs made instantaneous havoc. A blow here, 
 a kick there, deftly if not scientifically admin- 
 istered, a dexterous punch into one boy's ribs as 
 he collared another, and the discomfited tor- 
 mentors ruefully retreated. 
 
 Martin lay whining in the dust and dirt of the 
 street, where the boys had forced him. Skoot 
 helped him up, picked up his hat, and restored his 
 stick, which had fallen beside him. 
 
 The old man was much frightened, and 
 trembled pitifully. "It 's always that way, every 
 time I go on the street," he whimpered. "The 
 boys make fun of old Martin. Help me home, 
 Skoot ; do, there 's a good boy ; and I will give 
 you a bit of money; just a bit, for I am an old 
 man, and very poor." 
 
 Skoot cheerfully passed his kit to his left shoul-
 
 SKOOT 75 
 
 der, and with his right arm supported Martin to 
 his door. Once there, he would have turned away, 
 but the old man begged him to wait outside a mo- 
 ment while he went in alone. 
 
 "They would surely have killed me that time 
 but for Skoot," he muttered, painfully relocking 
 the door and drawing forth, his box. "Skoot is 
 a good boy, a very good boy, as boys go. Once 
 before he saved old Martin a beating from those 
 same bad hoodlums. I thought then I 'd given him 
 a gold-piece a-a-dollar." 
 
 He picked a shining round piece from its place, 
 then hesitated, with a shrewd tightening of his 
 lips. "I never told him I 'd give him so much. 
 A dollar is a great deal of money." He balanced 
 it nervously from hand to hand for a minute, and 
 finally laid it back, taking in its place a silver 
 half. He looked at this keenly, and felt of its sur- 
 face and edges. "A half is a good bit of money, 
 too," he whispered, "a good bit. A quarter is 
 enough for the boy." He replaced the box, and 
 turned toward the door irresolutely. "A quarter 
 is too much, too much," he went on. "So I will 
 give Skoot a dime, a whole shining silver dime." 
 
 He made the exchange, and again replaced the
 
 ;6 SKOOT 
 
 box. Then he unbarred the door. The dime was 
 burning his hand. If he only could put it back 
 into the box! But it might be that some time 
 again he would be exposed to bad boys, and need 
 Skoot. Yes, he would part with the dime. He 
 opened the door and called softly : 
 
 "Skoot! Skoot! Where is the boy?" 
 Martin looked right and left, but could see 
 nothing of him. In great glee he re-entered the 
 house and returned the dime to its place. 
 
 And Skoot where was he? Growing tired of 
 waiting for the old man, and having no confidence 
 in his promise of money, he had run around the 
 house after a stray dog that was limping pain- 
 fully on three legs. Skoot was very fond of dogs, 
 and this one was bruised and hurt. So he ran 
 across the front of the little house, turned the cor- 
 ner sharply, and came suddenly upon a man whose 
 eyes were against a crack in the shutters. As 
 Skoot ran against him, he turned on the boy with 
 profane words. Then Skoot saw that he was 
 fashionably dressed, with a dangling eyeglass, and 
 that there was a peculiar scar on his face.
 
 IT was noon when Miss Percy and the girls 
 reached Idlewood. But noon here was very 
 different from the same hour in the city. The 
 sunshine could only penetrate the pines at cer- 
 tain places, where the tops opened to the sky. 
 Then it only served to make a glint of moving 
 gold among the pine needles, and cones, and 
 mosses. Before the grove stretched the lake, beau- 
 tiful in its peace and solitude. The water lapped 
 into little coves and inlets, around tree-sentineled 
 headlands and grassy promontories, with shy, glid- 
 ing grace. 
 
 Many passengers streamed from the low, red 
 depot toward the grove. There were placid 
 matrons and giddy girls, old men and prattling 
 
 77
 
 78 SKOOT 
 
 children. Ministers with white ties and linen coats 
 hurried hither and thither in behalf of families or 
 parishioners. Molly nudged Dora, and began to 
 recite, in a tragical undertone : 
 
 "Parsons to right of them, 
 Parsons to left of them, 
 Parsons in front of them 
 
 Rushed forth and scrambled." 
 
 But all at once they were at the cottage. It 
 was one of many others on a pleasant side avenue, 
 and commanded a delightful view of the lake. The 
 key, which had been left for them at the post- 
 office, turned readily in the lock with a cheery, 
 creaky welcome. With a rush they were inside. 
 There were two rooms, with portieres that could 
 be pushed aside, thus converting two apartments 
 into one. There was also a roughly-built annex 
 in the rear, designed to serve as a cookhouse. Up- 
 stairs were rooms, with a pair of inviting white 
 beds, and a cot. There was a porch on the front, 
 where the girls hastened to swing a hammock and 
 set out chairs. Then, being quite breathless with 
 their exertions, they sat down to enjoy it. 
 
 It came to be a familiar sight at the grove 
 the blind child and the three girls, chaperoned by
 
 SKOOT 79 
 
 a deaconess. Pansy and Miss Percy were often 
 seen walking hand in hand through the avenues 
 or along the shady country roads. Many were the 
 confidences that the child gave to her friend of 
 the room in the alley brightened by the gentle 
 mother's voice and presence; of the same room 
 chilled and made strange by death; again, dese- 
 crated by the coarse-voiced woman whom her 
 father had put in her mother's place, and made 
 terrible by that father's 3; owing brutality. 
 
 One day they had walked some little distance 
 into the woods. The sky shone in patches of blue 
 above the trees ; bright-eyed squirrels looked ques- 
 tioningly down at them from their leafy coverts. 
 The air was fragrant with the subtle, spicy smells 
 of the woods and ground. 
 
 Pansy was unusually exhausted to-day. She 
 was not gaining strength as her friends had hoped 
 she would. They seated themselves on a fallen 
 tree-trunk, stripped of its bark, and encircled with 
 moss. She leaned back, very pale and exhausted, 
 while Miss Percy deftly arranged a shawl for her 
 comfort. When she had done all she could, the 
 child's lips were pitifully set and white, and the 
 long lashes swept her cheek.
 
 8o SKOOT 
 
 For the first time the thought crossed Miss 
 Percy's mind that, perhaps, while they had been 
 praying and planning that Pansy need not return 
 to Pinch Alley, the Heavenly Father had willed 
 something far above their thoughts. A quick pain 
 shot through the deaconess's heart, for she had 
 learned to love this afflicted, clinging child as she 
 never had loved another. Yet she remembered 
 that, loving her as she did, the Savior loved her 
 more, and the heart of the Eternal Father beat in 
 infinite tenderness for this, his little one. 
 
 With a sudden impulse, the woman gathered 
 the brown head to her breast, as only a woman 
 can, and lovingly smoothed the brow and cheek. 
 A quiet smile rested for a moment on Pansy's 
 face, to be quickly followed by the serious, wistful, 
 old look that had become habitual to it. 
 
 "Your hand is cool, like hers," she said, "so 
 gentle. It rests me. Sometimes I think I shall 
 see her soon. Perhaps Jesus will send her for 
 me, and he will make my eyes so I can see her. 
 Before she died, I used to wonder how she looked 
 when she talked with me; but I have seen her 
 so many times in my dreams, and she is so happy, 
 so beautiful."
 
 SKOOT 81 
 
 Miss Percy let her talk on, yet always with 
 that stricken feeling of the heart. She pressed the 
 little hand tenderly, and said nothing. 
 
 "Mamma always came to my bed and kissed 
 me before I went to sleep. It never seemed so 
 dark then. Sometimes, when I had been fretful 
 through the day, I used to wonder if she would 
 kiss me just the same. And she always did. I 
 never went to sleep until we had prayed to the 
 Lord Jesus together." 
 
 An English writer has said that the mother is 
 the child's god. Certain it is that the first soul- 
 consciousness of a need of love and forgiveness 
 from a higher Source meets its response in that 
 human, divine relationship. O mothers! by the 
 heaviness of the years in which you cry out for 
 the touch of a mother's hand upon your fore- 
 head, by the solemn memory of nights of pain 
 and solitude when your heart breaks to hear her 
 voice once more, make the good-night moments 
 with your own little ones a psalm, a prayer, a sacred 
 memorial for the after years when your hands shall 
 be dust. Forgive the little faults, kiss away the 
 tears, remembering that before the great Father 
 of souls we are all erring children. 
 6
 
 82 SKOOT 
 
 After a little Pansy slept. Miss Percy laid her 
 gently down on the shawl, letting her head yet 
 remain in her lap. She had brought with her a 
 book a little volume of spiritual teaching but 
 after a few moments she laid it down, realizing 
 that her mind was all on the child. 
 
 She wondered what the girls would say should 
 they see the change that was coming over Pansy. 
 They were full of plans for her future, the only 
 obstacle being the possible unwillingness of her 
 brutish father to give her up. And then her mind 
 dwelt upon them her girls, as she loved to think 
 of them. They were not gaining any spiritual 
 strength from the meetings. Indeed, they ad- 
 mitted honestly that they did not care for the 
 preaching or the frequent meetings for prayer. 
 Miss Percy could see that their hearts were be- 
 coming hardened by trifling with the things of the 
 Spirit. She felt that if this week did not bring 
 them consciously near to the Savior, the path to 
 Calvary, should they ever find it, would be back 
 across a weary stretch of years, and over barriers 
 that they had unconsciously placed for their feet. 
 
 Very sad thoughts they were, altogether, that 
 filled her heart and dimmed her eyes as she sat
 
 SKOOT 83 
 
 silently smoothing the pale forehead which sun and 
 shadow alternately crowned with gold and gloom. 
 With a heavy heart she realized how futile are 
 human plans, and that Pansy's eternal crown, on 
 which there should be no shadow, was nearly won. 
 
 There was a sudden creaking of the twigs and 
 bushes, a firm step on the leaves and underbrush, 
 and she lifted her face to look into that of Dr. 
 Armor, the minister in whose pulpit she had 
 spoken the previous Sunday, and the pastor of all 
 three of these girls. 
 
 "You have found a delightful retreat, Miss 
 Percy," he said, as he greeted her. "Is the little 
 one sleeping? I have seen her with you many 
 times. The change is benefiting her, do you 
 think ?" 
 
 Miss Percy shook her head, not conscious un- 
 til then that tears had been in her eyes. But they 
 splashed down two big, undeniable tears upon 
 Pansy's hair. 
 
 "You are in trouble," said the kind-hearted 
 man. "May I sit here beside you, and will you 
 tell me a little about it? Sometimes a burden is 
 lighter for being shared." 
 
 And in a low voice that refused to be steadied,
 
 84 SKOOT 
 
 she told him of her anxiety for the girls, her fears 
 for Pansy. 
 
 "Yet I should not be unhappy for the little 
 one," she went on, "for nothing could bring her 
 such joy as to know that she was soon to be with 
 Jesus and the dear mother. Sometimes I think 
 she does know it. Her conversation is all of 
 heaven. But my fears are for the girls. Before 
 I went away to the training-school I knew them 
 all, very slightly, to be sure, but yet enough to 
 feel that they were all earnest Christian girls. But 
 they are so different! Margaret has talked with 
 me some ; but of late her heart seems closed. Dora 
 is frank to acknowledge her disbelief of many 
 things we hold sacred. Molly is bewitched by a 
 godless young fellow, who flatters her, and makes 
 light of religion. Still they tell me they are mem- 
 bers of M Avenue Church, never having sev- 
 ered their relations. What can be done? Every 
 day their hearts grow harder and colder." 
 
 "It is a perplexing question," replied Dr. Ar- 
 mor, slowly. "The home influences of each of 
 these girls are somewhat peculiar. Margaret's 
 parents are worldly, and wholly given up to social 
 enjoyment. They are attendants, but not mem-
 
 SKOOT 85 
 
 bers, of the Church. Dora I do not know as well. 
 She has been away at college, except for vaca- 
 tions, all through my pastorate. Her father is a 
 busy, kindly man a physician with a large prac- 
 tice; but neither he nor his wife profess religion. 
 Molly's mother is a sharp-eyed, sharp-voiced, 
 bustling woman with five daughters to marry off. 
 She smiles on Molly's friendships, and sees noth- 
 ing imprudent in them or in her bearing. It is 
 a puzzle to know just what to do. I think I shall 
 talk personally with each of them before the 
 week is over." 
 
 And so he did; kindly, firmly, plainly, as one 
 who had oversight of their souls. Margaret raised 
 her eyebrows in polite evasion, Dora smiled 
 in serene indifference, and Molly alternately 
 dimpled with roguishness and shrank back in hor- 
 ror at "being talked to." When he left them the 
 burden was as heavy on his heart as on Miss 
 Percy's. 
 
 "We will be faithful in praying for them," he 
 said, "and the Spirit will touch their hearts."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 r \^ HE next morning a phaeton drew up at the 
 -- cottage door. It was hired by Miss Percy, 
 that she might take Pansy to the nearest physician, 
 who was three miles away. The girls, ever tender 
 and kind with the child, combined their efforts to 
 make her comfortable with shawls and pillows in- 
 numerable. Dismissing the driver, Miss Percy 
 took the reins, and they drove away. 
 
 It was a fragrant, dewy morning. Farmers 
 were cutting and loading hay, birds twittered in 
 the trees as they drove slowly along the pleasant 
 country road. Barefooted children looked out at 
 them from their play, and the open doors of the 
 occasional farmhouses revealed glimpses of com- 
 fortable home-life. House-dogs ran out and barked 
 
 86
 
 SKOOT 87 
 
 at them fiercely, then ran back, probably with a 
 sense of having done all that was expected of 
 them. 
 
 The doctor's house was one of those rambling 
 country houses, with a wide porch and side wings. 
 It was painted white, with green blinds, and stood 
 back beneath the shadow of a row of massive elms. 
 The walk leading to the door was bordered by 
 beds of mignonette, petunias, hollyhocks, and 
 other old-fashioned flowers. Children's play- 
 things were scattered over the porch, and a little 
 boy, with bobbing yellow curls, was vigorously 
 riding a hobby-horse. 
 
 A sweet-faced woman came through the hall 
 to greet them. No, doctor was not in. He had 
 gone into the country to. visit a patient, but would 
 be back soon. She was even now expecting him. 
 Would the lady come inside and wait? 
 
 So they went into the wide, low room, with its 
 deep window-seats and evergreen-filled fireplace. 
 The vines outside made a tracery of changing 
 brightness and shadow on the carpet, and the 
 breath of sweet peas was wafted from the garden- 
 beds. They had not long to wait, for before long 
 there was a sound of wheels on the gravel, and
 
 88 SKOOT 
 
 a call to the stable-boy, followed by the sliding 
 of the carriage-house door. 
 
 In a few minutes the doctor entered, very dusty 
 and heated. He was a stout, puffy little man, 
 with a bald head, and smooth cheeks that had a 
 way of filling with wind as he breathed. He 
 mopped his forehead vigorously while Miss Percy 
 stated her errand. Then he took the child's hand, 
 and as suddenly dropped it, as he started back, 
 realizing that his patient was blind. 
 
 "Why, bless my stars !" he ejaculated, "the 
 child can not see. What did you say her name 
 was? Pansy? H'm. Is she your child?" 
 
 "No relative, only a very dear friend," answered 
 the deaconess. "We hoped that the change of air 
 from the city to Idlewood would restore her 
 strength, but she grows weaker every day." 
 
 He felt Pansy's pulse, without replying, and 
 made a long, silent examination of the lungs and 
 heart. Then going to the door, which he had 
 closed on entering, he opened it, and called to 
 his wife. 
 
 "My dear," he said, as that lady appeared, "this 
 little child can not see; but I know she would 
 enjoy the smelling of a bunch of posies if you
 
 SKOOT 89 
 
 should take her into the garden. Would n't you, 
 Puss ?" he said, softly pinching Pansy's cheek. 
 
 "Yes, sir, if you please," she said, in her 
 peculiarly old and serious way, and the doctor's 
 wife led her away, out among the flowers, and 
 birds, and butterflies. The doctor closed the door, 
 and, sitting down, began drumming his knees with 
 his fingers. 
 
 "Well?" interrogated Miss Percy, nervously. 
 
 "Bad complications, very bad; delicate consti- 
 tution; badly worn. Did you say she was your 
 child?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Your sister, then ? No ? Cousin ? Family re- 
 semblance, you see. O, no relation only a friend. 
 Where is her mother? She ought to be with her." 
 
 "Her mother has been dead nearly a year. I 
 will speak plainly concerning her, doctor. She is 
 a little, unfortunate child, abused by a brutal step- 
 mother and a drinking father. We found her in 
 
 one of the lowest sections of the city of . 
 
 We hoped to take her away, and find her a pleasant 
 home where she would be cared for, for she is a 
 very sweet and beautiful child. But of late it has 
 seemed that she would never be strong again."
 
 90 SKOOT 
 
 "No, she won't," said the doctor, bluntly, his 
 cheeks filling and emptying at a prodigious rate. 
 "So she is a tenement child, is she ? Never would 
 have thought it. Good ancestry somewhere. Must 
 be. But you are correct in your fears. She can 
 not live. In fact, she may die any time." 
 
 When Miss Percy rose to go it was with a 
 pitiful sense of desolation in her heart. She had 
 been an only child, and her father and mother were 
 still living. So, though she had looked on death 
 many times, she felt that its shadow had never 
 chilled her heart as now, so much had she grown 
 to love Pansy. 
 
 They went outside, and joined the doctor's wife 
 on the porch. Pansy was sitting beside her with 
 a lap full of the velvety flowers whose name she 
 bore. The doctor wrote a prescription, and spoke 
 a few kindly words. He helped them into the 
 phaeton, and they drove away. 
 
 Pansy asked no questions on the way home. 
 She held her cherished flowers, and said she was 
 tired, and wanted to rest. 
 
 When they again reached the cottage the child 
 was asleep, and the flowers wilted and dead. They 
 fell and drooped at her feet. Poor pansies ! Type
 
 SKOOT 91 
 
 of the earth-blossom that was even then fading 
 and dying ! 
 
 That evening they were all sitting on the porch 
 together. Miss Percy had talked to them about 
 Pansy soon after the return from the doctor's 
 house. At first they had refused to admit the 
 danger at all; but Miss Percy reported the words 
 of the physician as plainly as he had spoken, and 
 the verdict was very far from satisfactory. To- 
 night they were especially tender of the child. The 
 little cot had been brought out, and she lay resting 
 upon it while the fresh young voices sang hymn 
 after hymn. 
 
 Suddenly Pansy reached for Molly's hand, and, 
 still holding it, groped farther until she had 
 touched Dora's and Margaret's likewise. Hold- 
 ing the three together, she spoke to them grate- 
 fully of their kindness in giving her this happy 
 summer, of the beautiful home to which she was 
 going, and how she would tell Jesus of their care 
 and love to the poor, blind child. 
 
 Molly's tears fell fast. "O Pansy, darling, do 
 not talk so!" she said. "We want you to be well 
 and strong and happy in some pretty home, with 
 friends to love you and care for you."
 
 92 SKOOT 
 
 "But it is better," whispered the child, "it is 
 better to be with Jesus." 
 
 And thus they sang and talked far into the 
 night. Then they went inside. Very tenderly the 
 little cot was set in its place beside Miss Percy's 
 bed. They bent over her to bid her good-night, 
 and a new thought came to Miss Percy. It might 
 be might be that Pansy -could do for these girls 
 what neither she nor Dr. Armor nor any one else 
 could. Was it not written that God had revealed 
 unto babes that which was hidden from the wise 
 and prudent?
 
 THERE were new neighbors across the way 
 a young man, somewhat delicate in appear- 
 ance, a lady whom it was easy to recognize as his 
 mother, and another lady, some years older, whom 
 he addressed as aunt. 
 
 Frank Traverse was a student who had sought 
 the invigorating pine air to restore the strength 
 exhausted by a year's close application to study. 
 He and his mother were sitting on the porch one 
 afternoon when across the avenue a cot was 
 brought out, and pillows arranged with great care. 
 
 "Some one must be sick over there," remarked 
 Mrs. Traverse. "I wonder who it can be. Miss 
 Percy, the deaconess, is staying there, and there 
 are two or three girls." 
 
 93
 
 94 SKOOT 
 
 Just then Margaret appeared in the doorway, 
 carrying Pansy, who had become too weak to 
 walk. She laid her tenderly down, smoothing the 
 pillow with her hand. 
 
 "It is a child," said Frank; "but it might be 
 an angel, judging from her face. How spiritual 
 it is, and how pale ! I wonder who the girl is with 
 her. Her sister, I suppose, though they do not 
 look alike. Do n't you think you ought to go 
 over, mother? The little girl seems very weak." 
 
 And so it came about that the new neighbors 
 lost little time in getting acquainted. The suffer- 
 ing child drew them together. When Mrs. 
 Traverse had learned her sad history, she longed 
 to take her into her heart and home. "I never 
 had a daughter," she said, "and O, the joy it would 
 be to care for this little child! We must induce 
 her miserable father to give her up, and after this 
 season is over we will take her home with us." 
 
 What plans she made! The first and all-im- 
 portant thing was to consult a specialist for the 
 child's eyes. Then the little alcove room at home 
 should be newly papered and furnished, and 
 daintily harmonized in pink and blue. There 
 should be a small white bed and dressing-table,
 
 SKOOT 95 
 
 and all the dainty furnishings that should be found 
 in a girl's room. And so, in her loving short- 
 sightedness, she planned and planned, refusing to 
 believe that the Heavenly Friend had planned 
 otherwise. 
 
 Aunt Jolly, who, by the way, was a tall, thin, 
 solemn-visaged lady of sixty, was not at all in 
 sympathy with these ideas. Her name and dis- 
 position were diametrical opposites. "What 's in 
 a name ?" Nothing, surely, in Aunt Jolly's case ; 
 for though a sincere, praying woman, she viewed 
 the world and all that is therein through double 
 pessimistic spectacles; maintained with all the 
 fervor of a philosopher that the world was just 
 as bad as it could be; and, with all the incon- 
 sistency of a woman, that it was steadily growing 
 worse. She had no faith in the disinterested kind- 
 heartedness of the girls opposite, nor yet in that 
 of the deaconess. 
 
 "Folks can appear very fine/' she said, lugu- 
 briously inclining her head; "folks can seem to be 
 pretty and kind and nice, and if you do n't look 
 out you '11 grow to like them, but " 
 
 Aunt Jolly's "buts" always concluded her 
 diagnoses. But her sister and nephew had long
 
 96 SKOOT 
 
 been accustomed to her peculiarities, and never 
 took them seriously. They only laughed good- 
 naturedly at what they called her "notions." 
 
 The porch across the way became the center of 
 much interest to the people of the avenue. The 
 little cot became almost a shrine, where even 
 the stranger paused for a moment, and went away 
 uplifted in soul. Many and long were the con- 
 versations on spiritual subjects held about it. 
 Frank Traverse found himself studying the three 
 girls, and was not long in deciding that they were 
 not in the enjoyment of daily communion with 
 the Father. Margaret was always reserved and 
 quiet; Dora leaned dangerously toward agnostic 
 views. Molly was a chatterbox, continually giv- 
 ing expression to what she thought, and to much 
 that she did n't think. 
 
 "What do you think, Mr. Traverse," she said, 
 brightly, one day as they were all sitting together, 
 "I refused an invitation to go wheeling with a 
 friend to-morrow, just because it was Sunday, and 
 for the sake of our little friend here. I knew it 
 would grieve her for me to go, and so I told 
 him no. I suppose you think Sunday wheeling 
 is dreadful?"
 
 SKOOT 97 
 
 "To the Christian," he answered, "Sunday is 
 sacred as the day on which Jesus came forth from 
 the tomb. Even outside of this, there are argu- 
 ments why one day in seven should be set apart 
 as a day of rest. Yes, Miss Molly, I shall have 
 to plead guilty to saying that I do believe that 
 Sunday wheeling is 'dreadful.' ' : 
 
 The others laughed, but he remained thought- 
 ful. "These questions of recreation are really very 
 serious," he went on. "Our young people seldom 
 realize what danger there is in questionable 
 amusements." 
 
 "You object to the dance, too, I suppose?" 
 queried Dora, as she gently fanned the face on 
 the pillow. 
 
 "Most decidedly. The dance is, and always 
 has been, degrading. But once entered upon, 
 there is a fascination which it requires great 
 strength of character to break. Few people can 
 break a chain after they have riveted it. It takes 
 a strength greater than ours." 
 
 "There is one thing," said Molly, abruptly, 
 
 after a little pause, "that, if it could be had, 
 
 would go a long way towards establishing people 
 
 in religious principle. It is what old-fashioned 
 
 7
 
 98 SKOOT 
 
 Methodists call 'experience.' I have known a 
 great many professing Christians who make no 
 claim to any conscious 'experience,' because it is 
 not to be had. There are many who fall away." 
 
 "Not to be had, Miss Molly? Are you sure? 
 Do you know that the very experience which you 
 say is not to be had has comforted the martyr in 
 the flames, the afflicted in sorrow, the suffering 
 in death? Never would I attempt to preach the 
 gospel if I did not definitely, positively know that 
 it is to be had the blessed witness of the Spirit. 
 Paul affirmed it, as did also Calvin, Ridley, 
 Melanchthon, Chrysostom. Calvin says, 'Where 
 this pledge of Divine love towards us is wanting, 
 there is assuredly no faith.' Ridley declares, 
 'The Spirit of God is given us to put us in surety 
 that God favoreth us ; if we lack this Spirit, we 
 be none of Christ's.' Chrysostom says, 'The 
 Supreme Being, who is himself the Author and 
 Source of Adoption, bears this testimony.' Me- 
 lanchthon says, 'The Holy Spirit is sent into the 
 hearts of believers, that he may kindle new light, 
 righteousness, and life eternal. He witnesses, 
 bears testimony within us, that we are received 
 into favor.'"
 
 SKOOT 99 
 
 "It seems very plain," said Margaret, with a 
 sigh, "but in some way it is a knowledge that few 
 people have, or really seem to have. If the expe- 
 rience were only more common, there would be 
 fewer backsliders." 
 
 All at once it became evident that Molly was 
 becoming very much embarrassed. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon the figure of a young man, swinging 
 jauntily down the avenue. He lifted his hat as he 
 neared the group on the porch, and, pausing by 
 Molly, waited for the usual introductions. 
 
 "Mr. Rivers, Miss Doane, Miss Clark, Mr. 
 Traverse." 
 
 These formalities over, he seated himself near 
 Molly, and began a conversation in an undertone. 
 
 "So this is your little protegee, eh? And that," 
 in a lower tone, "is your deaconess? What a 
 long face ! Do they have to look that way to be 
 religious ?" 
 
 Molly was angry, and moved her chair nearer 
 Pansy's cot without speaking. But he was not to 
 be put off. 
 
 "Say that you 've changed your mind about 
 that spin into the country Sunday," he pleaded. 
 "There 's a jolly crowd going, and I Ve engaged
 
 ioo SKOOT 
 
 two wheels, knowing that when you came to 
 think it over you 'd surely go." 
 
 "I 'm not going," said Molly, curtly. "I 
 have n't changed my mind in the least." 
 
 The young man whistled. "You '11 go up with 
 me on the train to-night?" he asked. "Great play, 
 superb acting, drawing the largest crowds of the 
 season. I have tickets for the balcony." 
 
 What had come over Molly? "I dare say you '11 
 find some one to enjoy it with you," she said. "I 
 am not going." 
 
 "To the theater?" he gasped, astonished. 
 "You did n't understand. I spoke of the theater." 
 
 "I understood you perfectly, and I do not care 
 to go. There are reasons," glancing at Pansy, 
 "why I shall not go. Perhaps I do not know 
 it may be that I shall never go to the theater 
 again." 
 
 "I see," sneered the young man, disagreeably. 
 "You always jumped at the chance of going, but 
 our long-faced deaconess and a beggar child are 
 trying to convert you. O, well, never fear but 
 that the tickets will be used." 
 
 Until then Molly had not noticed that they 
 were alone. Frank and Margaret were strolling
 
 SKOOT 101 
 
 down the avenue together, a habit they had of 
 late taken up. Dora and Miss Percy had gone 
 inside. 
 
 Molly rose, with coldness enough to do 
 credit to Dora herself. "You have said enough, 
 Mr. Rivers," she said, her breath coming and 
 going nervously; "you have not only insulted 
 me, but my friends as well. Hereafter we are 
 acquaintances only," and she passed him his hat 
 which had been lying on the porch. He looked 
 at her a moment, as if undecided what to do ; but 
 Molly was still standing, and showed no symp- 
 toms of crying, as he had hoped. He muttered a 
 few unintelligible words, and walked away, con- 
 siderably crestfallen. 
 
 "Molly, dear," and a little hand patted the one 
 that was trembling violently as it rested on the 
 cot, "Molly, dear, I 'm so glad." 
 
 Molly stooped and kissed her. 
 
 "Why, Girlie?" she asked. 
 
 "Because I think," said the child, with that 
 peculiar intuition that is sometimes found in the 
 very young, "because I think he is not a good 
 man, and I do not think that he loves you at all." 
 
 Molly was silent, but secretly congratulated
 
 102 SKOOT 
 
 herself on the part she had taken. She felt that 
 she had done right in dismissing Rivers, for she 
 could not deny that his influence over her was 
 bad. 
 
 "Perhaps I may be an old maid now," she 
 sighed, ruefully shrugging her shoulders. "Well, 
 if I do, I '11 try to be as nice a one as Miss Percy. 
 The idea of his daring to speak of her as he did ! 
 She is the sweetest woman I ever knew. I wonder 
 if Margaret likes that Mr. Traverse. She would 
 make an ideal minister's wife if she could only 
 unbend a little ; but they say she is going to marry 
 Guy Merton. O, dear! I hope she won't. But 
 her people are so rich and proud, they never would 
 let her marry a minister. There, they are coming 
 back." 
 
 As Margaret stepped to the porch, there was 
 a heightened color in her cheeks that prompted 
 Molly to say, wistfully, "Do you like him, 
 Margie ?" 
 
 Margaret answered with a pretty assump- 
 tion of age and dignity. "Do n't be foolish, child," 
 she said in a superior way. "Is Pansy asleep? 
 Yes? Miss Percy has bad news from Skoot. He
 
 SKOOT 103 
 
 is arrested and locked up for stealing from that 
 old miser whom we called on with Miss Percy. 
 There is a long account in the daily. It looks 
 black for Skoot. We must n't let Pansy know 
 of this, it would make her unhappy. Miss Percy 
 is going up on the afternoon train to see if any- 
 thing can be done. Here 's Aunt Jolly coming 
 across with a tumbler of jelly for Pansy. Take 
 a seat, Aunt Jolly. It 's very warm, is n't it ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Traverse sent this to the little girl," she 
 said, as she seated herself. "Sometimes the jel 
 spoils, and you do n't know it till you taste it. 
 This looks all right," peering into the glass, 'Taut " 
 
 The shrill scream of an engine was heard in 
 the distance. 
 
 "Them steam cars are dangerous things," 
 went on Aunt Jolly. "I knew two people men 
 who were in a steam car that smashed through a 
 bridge. It was a dreadful accident, dreadful," and 
 Aunt Jolly's handkerchief came to her eyes. Here 
 was the romance that Mrs. Traverse had told to 
 the girls the only love affair that had ever con- 
 cerned Aunt Jolly. The girls were all sympathy. 
 
 "Did it kill them?" inquired Molly.
 
 104 SKOOT 
 
 "One of 'em it did," answered the old lady, 
 "and the other it blew all to pieces; boiler ex- 
 ploded, you know." 
 
 "There 's a friend of Frank's coming on this 
 train," she went on, after a free use of the hand- 
 kerchief; "a college friend, a lawyer he is now; 
 now I never did have a sight of confidence in 
 lawyers. They 're nice looking, most generally, 
 but their fingers is always itching to get into 
 your pockets, and see what they can get. This 
 friend of Frank's seems like a nice young man, 
 but" - 
 
 Molly smiled, in spite of herself, as the old 
 lady ran on. She was full of suggestions con- 
 cerning Pansy, telling of different cases where 
 such and such remedies had proved effective. 
 They were yet rocking and talking when Frank 
 Traverse came up the avenue, his friend with him, 
 swinging a much-distended grip, that threatened 
 to burst at every step. 
 
 "That 's him," said Aunt Jolly, with a bend of 
 her thumb in their direction ; "the lawyer, Frank's 
 friend. He looks like a nice fellow, now, do n't he ? 
 But," with a sigh, "you never can tell, especially 
 about lawyers."
 
 SKOOT 105 
 
 Just then Pansy awoke, and began feeling 
 along the counterpane, neverously, with her hands. 
 
 "I want Skoot," she pleaded, with trembling 
 lips. "I 've been dreaming of Skoot ; and how 
 kind he used to be to me. It seems as if some one 
 was hurting him. Won't you tell Skoot to come? 
 I want Skoot O, so much!" 
 
 Molly and Margaret looked at each other 
 across the cot. What could they say ? Skoot was 
 in jail !
 
 YES, Skoot was in trouble. To the bewildered 
 boy, lying on his face on the floor of his cell, 
 everything seemed confused and chaotic. He 
 had been in custody twenty-four hours, and in that 
 time had neither eaten nor slept. It had not been 
 many days since he had watched Pansy and her 
 friends off on the train, and new purposes had been 
 born in his heart. One event had followed an- 
 other so rapidly, and his physical condition was 
 so weak, that he was unable to trace the course 
 of incidents up to the present time. Yet here he 
 was a prisoner, with every probability of being con- 
 victed, and "sent up" to a reformatory institution. 
 For the sake of our reader, we will go back a 
 
 little in our narrative back to Guy Merton, whom 
 1 06
 
 SKOOT 107 
 
 we left in a very uncomfortable predicament finan- 
 cially. You remember that he had followed Skoot 
 to the old miser's shanty a miserable enough 
 place, on the outskirts of the town and, through 
 a chink in the shutters, he had watched the old 
 man sift and fondle and kiss his gold. He had 
 noted the exact location of the trapdoor, its di- 
 rection from the entrance, etc. ; and, just as he 
 was estimating the number of steps necessary 
 to reach it, Skoot had run against him, in pursuit 
 of the stray dog. 
 
 Merton shook the boy away angrily. Skoot 
 instantly recognized his patron with the scarred 
 face, but, beyond wondering for a moment why 
 such a finely-dressed gentleman should be look- 
 ing in at old Martin's window, he thought noth- 
 ing of it, and still pursued the dog, which was 
 limping just ahead. 
 
 But there was evil in Merton's heart, and in 
 his head as well. His rascally brains were well 
 adapted to project the plan that came to him. 
 In the first place, he must have some money. In 
 the second place, why should he not have the 
 miser's? In the third place, why should not 
 Skoot be made to serve him in getting it? He
 
 108 SKOOT 
 
 could use the boy, he told himself, in such a way 
 as to make the accusation fall on him, if on any 
 one; and then he could pay Doddridge & Com- 
 pany, and have time to work up some other 
 scheme. 
 
 Gradually his plan took shape as he walked 
 along. Skoot was a few blocks ahead of him, 
 carrying the wounded dog. The thought struck 
 Merton to follow him, and see whither he went. 
 Down side-streets and alleys, by many a turn and 
 twist, he followed, still keeping his eye on Skoot, 
 who was whistling merrily. Finally the boy 
 dived down a narrow court, fouler and dirtier 
 than any Merton had ever seen. He passed 
 several doors in a block, and finally turned in 
 at one which stood open. 
 
 "This, I suppose is the dog's kennel," mused 
 Merton, referring to the boy rather than the 
 dog, as might be supposed. "Ye gods! what a 
 hole! But he is coming out again, and a beldam 
 behind him." 
 
 Sure enough, Skoot's sister-in-law was bear- 
 ing down on him with a broom, with which she 
 was vigorously belaboring him over the head and 
 shoulders! "Throw the cur into the river," she
 
 SKOOT 109 
 
 screamed; "ain't it enough ter feed yer, without 
 yer bringin' home a howlin' cur? Take that, an' 
 that, an' that," emphasizing her pronouns with 
 violent blows on the boy's bent head; "an' off 
 with yer, I say! If yer drown yerself as well as 
 the cur, so much the better !" 
 
 "I guess that 's right," muttered Skoot, bend- 
 ing over the dog to prevent the blows from fall- 
 ing on the poor beast. "I guess that 's right. 
 I '11 take you to Sukey. She '11 take care of you 
 a while until I 'm ready ter git out o' this." 
 
 Skoot passed on, never noticing the observer 
 around the corner. When the boy had gone 
 from sight, Merton muffled his neck and the lower 
 part of his face in a handkerchief, and advanced 
 into the court, where he knocked at the door that 
 the woman had entered. 
 
 She answered the summons herself, and seemed 
 much disconcerted at the elegance of her guest. 
 She smoothed her apron with her big, red hands, 
 and twisted her hair, which, in the late encounter 
 with Skoot, had assumed a more belligerent aspect 
 than usual. Merton's smile resulted in her almost 
 utter stupefaction. 
 
 "May I come in, my good woman?" he asked.
 
 no SKOOT 
 
 "I want to talk with you about the boy who has 
 just gone out." 
 
 "A young villain," said the woman, angrily. 
 "He '11 be hung yet, an' that I Ve told him often. 
 If his head war n't harder 'n a doorpost, it 'u'd have 
 been broken long ago." 
 
 By this time Merton was within. Such a place 
 as it was ! He could hardly breathe. Cabbage- 
 leaves mingled with the ashes on the hearth, and 
 a steaming kettle of this vegetable simmered on 
 the broken stove. There were only two chairs 
 in the room, one supported by three legs, the 
 other by two. With an eye to self-preservation, 
 Merton propped the one of three legs against the 
 wall, and made a show of sitting in it, not daring 
 to trust his weight upon the inclined seat. 
 
 "The boy Soot, or Shoot, or Skoot," he be- 
 gan, smoothly, "is he ah your boy?" 
 
 "Does he look like he was?" retorted the 
 woman. "Is my hair red? Has my man got red 
 hair, like the boy's? Look you, there he lays/' 
 throwing open the door of a closet, and disclos- 
 ing the figure of a man in a drunken sleep ; "how 
 then, could the boy belong to us, I say? Skoot 
 is my man's brother ; livin' an' feedin' on us."
 
 SKOOT in 
 
 "Has he any father?" was Merton's next ques- 
 tion. "No? Mother dead too, I suppose?" 
 
 "He 's got nobody but his brother there," re- 
 joined the woman ; "an' he ain't wuth his salt, he 
 ain't. If I hed my way, he 'd never come back 
 here no more. Eatin' other people's victuals an' 
 takin' up their room !" 
 
 "No one to ask any questions if he should n't 
 come back any more, eh? If he should run away, 
 or fall into the river, or get run over on the track, 
 or get locked up, or anything of that sort, eh ?" 
 
 "Good riddance, good riddance ! I hate the 
 sight of the boy, all arms and legs. Bah !" 
 
 "Take this, my good woman," he said, rising 
 and pressing a silver piece into her hand. "I hope 
 you and your man will enjoy it. Good-day." And 
 he left her gaping speechlessly after him. 
 
 "Now the next thing," he soliloquized, "is to 
 find Skoot. You 're quite sharp, my young friend, 
 especially as to knees and elbows ; but I think I 
 can handle you all right. Now to watch until you 
 come back. While I 'm waiting, I may as well get 
 ready." 
 
 He took a blank envelope from his pocket, 
 sealed it, and placed it inside his waistcoat. Then
 
 H2 SKOOT 
 
 he waited one, three, five hours, until it was quite 
 dark. Finally, just as he decided to wait until the 
 next day for the furtherance of his plans, Skoot 
 rounded the corner. 
 
 Merton stepped up to him, and laid a hand on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "Do you want to earn a dollar, boy?" he in- 
 quired. "Yes, of course, any bright boy would. 
 Will you take this letter to the street and number 
 I will tell you ? It 's for my uncle, and this mes- 
 sage is important. He '11 be much put out if he 
 does n't get it to-night." 
 
 "Sure," answered Skoot. "Who 's yer uncle, 
 an' where does he live ?" 
 
 "Some ways around that corner Mr. Martin, 
 Martin the miser, people call him. You know 
 where he lives. Be sure you give this letter into 
 his own hands. I 'd go myself, but there 's a 
 fellow waiting for me down town. I '11 give you 
 the dollar now," he said, handing the silver coin 
 to him. "If my uncle has gone to bed you must 
 make him get up. Understand?" 
 
 "He ain't yer uncle, though," said Skoot, 
 shrewdly; "though I'll take yer letter all right," 
 and off he skimmed around a corner.
 
 SKOOT 113 
 
 A dollar seemed a large amount to Skoot. 
 More than this, he had decided to turn his back 
 upon Pinch Alley for all time, and try his fortunes 
 elsewhere. A dollar was a better start than many 
 great men had had, he had heard the people say 
 at the mission. Moreover, it was a dark, starless 
 night, and Merton's face had been so muffled that 
 the boy never suspected who he was, and thus fell 
 readily into the trap. 
 
 Off he darted, giving Merton all he could do to 
 follow him. Dodging in front of cable-cars and 
 cabs, and other such vehicles as were out at that 
 hour, finally he turned down a darker and less fre- 
 quented street. On and still on, until he stood in 
 front of Uncle Martin's cottage. The house was 
 dark, and yet, after a little, a crack of light showed 
 through the shutters. 
 
 Skoot pounded at the door. "Uncle Mart ; 
 I say, Uncle Mart, let me in ; I Ve got something 
 for you. It 's me Skoot Higgins. I 've got a 
 letter ter give yer!" 
 
 "Confound the boy ! He 's back after the 
 
 money I promised him," muttered the miser. 
 
 "But I won't give it to him. I '11 give him ha 
 
 a penny ! Are you alone, Skoot ?" he called, in a 
 
 8
 
 H4 SKOOT 
 
 smoother voice, his lips to the keyhole. "Are you 
 sure you 're alone ? There ain't any boys, now, 
 or" 
 
 "All alone," answered the boy. "Come, hurry 
 up, or I must be movin'. Ah!" as the creaking 
 bolt was withdrawn, disclosing the old man with 
 a candle in his hand. "A feller in the street give 
 me this ter give you must have been a ten- 
 derfoot, or he would n't have give me a dollar 
 without knowin' as I had done it. If it had n't 
 been for you, I 'd ha' cut with the dollar, and ' 
 
 But just what he would have done Skoot did 
 not have time to say, for as the miser out- 
 stretched his trembling hand for the letter, the 
 candle was suddenly struck from his hand, and 
 they were in darkness. Having seen only Skoot, 
 the old man struggled wildly with him, while he 
 called madly for help. 
 
 It was not long in coming. Voices were heard 
 in the street, in the yard. In a few moments there 
 were people and lights in the room. The lifted 
 trapdoor was revealed in the floor. With a howl 
 the old man dug his hand down into the aperture. 
 His money was gone! He tore his hair and
 
 SKOOT 115 
 
 flesh, and would have fallen, shrieking, upon the 
 bewildered Skoot, and torn him limb from limb, 
 but for the intervention of the people who had 
 flocked to the scene. 
 
 It was plain that Uncle Martin had been 
 robbed. It was equally plain that Skoot had an ac- 
 complice who had made off with the money while 
 Skoot held the old man. It had been quick work, 
 but successful, for not a single piece of the miser's 
 hoard could be found. Merton's plan had worked 
 well. He was even then some blocks away. But 
 in the yard he had run into a stupid Irish woman 
 hastening toward the scene of the outcry, and 
 she had swung the lantern full in his face. But 
 he had the box concealed beneath his coat. Slack- 
 ening his pace as he neared the more brilliantly- 
 lighted streets, he boarded a car, and leisurely 
 smoked a cigar on the platform. 
 
 But how about Skoot ? Set upon and borne to 
 the ground by two burly men, the marks of the 
 miser's fingers on his face and neck, blood pouring 
 profusely from his nose, he found himself the cen- 
 ter of an excited crowd, all of whom were noisily 
 shouting directions as to what should be done.
 
 u6 SKOOT 
 
 "Faith, an' he 's a disperrit character," said 
 one of the self-appointed custodians. "It 's a 
 wonder he did n't kill the old man intoirely !" 
 
 "He says he will the next time," answered the 
 other, who sat on Skoot's chest, while his com- 
 panion sat on the boy's feet. "It 's all I can do 
 to kape him down. He 's an awful vilyun. I 'm 
 that scared every moment fur fear he '11 be stab- 
 bin' me !" 
 
 Between the suffocation caused by the press- 
 ure on his lungs and various hurts and bruises, 
 to which nearly every one present had contributed, 
 Skoot was in a fair way to be strangled then and 
 there, to say nothing of the physical impossi- 
 bility of his being able to speak at all. Perhaps be- 
 tween them they would have suffocated him, but 
 for a new presence, before which the people fell 
 back, and a voice of authority, as a policeman ad- 
 vanced through the crowd. 
 
 "Make way there, way!" he cried. "So this 
 is the thief, is it ? Well, my boy, we '11 give you 
 a little ride ; won't cost you a cent," and he merci- 
 fully knocked the burly guards aside, and lifted 
 the choking, gasping, blinded boy to his feet. 
 
 The people in the street paused to look after
 
 SKOOT 117 
 
 the ambulance, as it tore madly along, the horses 
 rearing and foaming, and, within, the form of a 
 boy securely held by two big policemen. 
 
 "Only a child ! I wonder what he has done," 
 said some of the more sympathetic, and then 
 passed on, to forget all about it. And Skoot was 
 pulled out, and questioned, and replied wildly 
 and much to his disadvantage. Then he was 
 rushed off to a cell, there to throw himself upon 
 the floor, and wonder what it all meant. And all 
 this while Pansy moaned and tossed upon her cot 
 at Idlewood, calling incessantly for Skoot, Skoot, 
 Skoot !
 
 TT) ANSY'S condition was steadily growing 
 - more serious. The fever burned like fire in 
 her cheeks. The physician whom Miss Percy 
 had consulted was hastily summoned, and looked 
 very grave as he stood by the tossing little form. 
 Mrs. Traverse and Aunt Jolly were often at the 
 cottage, doing all in their power to alleviate the 
 suffering. Frank had brought his friend, Ralph 
 Warham, as far as the porch for a barely cere- 
 monious call. 
 
 Much of the time Pansy lived over the wretched 
 alley life, in pitiful delirium. Again she talked 
 of her new friends, always with the prayer that 
 they might know Jesus, and love him. Yet un- 
 derneath all was the reiterated cry for Skoot. 
 
 On the porch without Ralph Warham heard 
 118
 
 SKOOT 119 
 
 the word, so often repeated, and always with such 
 intense longing. She did not know any of them 
 now, kiss her, weep over her, as they would. But 
 she begged Skoot to bring her water cold, cold 
 water she was so thirsty. 
 
 "Who or what is Skoot?" Warham asked 
 Dora, who had gone outside, unable to endure any 
 longer the strain on heart and nerves. "She calls 
 continually for Skoot. I can even hear her in Mrs. 
 Traverse's cottage." 
 
 And Dora told him all she knew of Skoot, and 
 why they did not send for him. Miss Percy, com- 
 ing out at that moment, supplemented Dora's 
 account as best she could. 
 
 Mr. Warham was deeply interested. "I am half 
 inclined," he confided to Traverse that evening, 
 "to take the midnight train back to the city, and 
 try to unravel this. The child will die, of course, 
 but the doctor expects her to rally, and be con- 
 scious for a while. The boy ought to be here. 
 Yes, I '11 go back, and find out what I can about 
 the case. There are some peculiar features. If 
 the boy worked with any one else, it was as a tool, 
 not an accomplice. Aside from sympathetic in- 
 terest, my professional curiosity is aroused."
 
 120 SKOOT 
 
 So it happened that when the 12.15 train pulled 
 out that still, summer night, Ralph Warham was 
 the solitary passenger to board it. He stepped 
 from it just as the gray dawn was breaking over 
 the great city. 
 
 He found enough to do that first day. A visit 
 to the jail, where an interview with Skoot only in- 
 tensified the interest that he already felt in the 
 case ; a second visit to Pinch Alley, and a third to 
 the miser's house. 
 
 He found Martin in a frenzy bordering on 
 madness. His imprecations against Skoot were 
 swift and terrible. There was an Irishwoman 
 present a stout, good-natured creature, with a 
 florid face and a pleasing brogue who listened 
 intently to all the conversation that passed be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 When Warham had learned all he could of 
 Martin, Mrs. O'Flannigan followed him outside. 
 
 "It 's not carin' I am to be brought into the 
 likes of this," she said, "but sure the poor bye is 
 that sick and spent that it 's all afther goin' ag'inst 
 him intoirely. It 's little I have to say at all, at 
 all, but I 've heard it said as you lawyer-men can 
 make a great dale out o' nothin'. Sure, says I,
 
 SKOOT 121 
 
 that bein' the case, ye might be able to make 
 something out of a little. I 'm moved to spake 
 to ye of my soospicions. To begin, then, the day 
 of the robbery, do yer mind, I was comin' home 
 from Mrs. Wener's, where I washes onct a week. 
 It 's a short cut through old Martin's back yard, 
 and used considerable, as ye can see by the path 
 throd down through the wades. Jist as I was 
 nearin' the house I spied a man lookin' in at the 
 west windy sure there 's no houses or neighbors 
 on that side at all, as ye can see yerself by lookin'." 
 
 "What did he look like?" asked Warham. 
 
 "Wan o' them illegant dressed fellers, wid a 
 watch-charrum big as a turnip. Faith, says I, but 
 that 's strange. He turned around just then, and 
 I see his face." 
 
 "Can you describe him at all? height, size, 
 complexion?" 
 
 "There 's just wan thing I can tell for sure. 
 Indade, there 's two. He was a smallish sort of 
 a feller, and right here," indicating her cheek, "was 
 a long, dark scar-r." 
 
 "An' that 's not all," she went on, as Warham 
 would have spoken. "Hear me a bit ; for that 
 night, what wid the old man a-scramin', and the
 
 122 SKOOT 
 
 folks a-rushin', says I to meself, says I, 'Bridget, 
 yez must be afther findin' out what all this scrim- 
 mage is about.' We kape a pig, and a cow, and 
 some chickens and gase, along wid old Mike, the 
 horse, and, sure, I was in the barn when I heard 
 all the shoutin' and noise. Runnin' out, suddint 
 like, a feller runs inter me, fit to knock me down, 
 save that he was that little and I that big. 'Whist,' 
 says I, 'can't ye see a body at all?' says I, and I 
 swung the lantern I was afther carryin' full in his 
 face. Sure, by the saints, it was the same feller, 
 him wid the scar-r !" 
 
 Unlike many witnesses, the longer the honest 
 woman talked the clearer became her information. 
 After enjoining silence upon her, Warham hurried 
 back to the jail to interview Skoot. He found the 
 boy with a clearer head and more able to talk. 
 Questioning him closely, he drew from him all he 
 knew of the man with the marked face. Warham 
 decided that the man must be found. His identifi- 
 cation by Skoot and Mrs. O'Flannigan might be 
 the first thread in unraveling this tangle. 
 
 It proved to be a difficult undertaking. He 
 visited clubrooms, matinees, waiting-rooms, but
 
 SKOOT 123 
 
 could find no trace of the man he sought. He had 
 been two days in the city, and Miss Percy tele- 
 graphed him that Pansy was sinking rapidly. 
 Traverse also wrote him that Margaret would re- 
 turn on the evening train, to try to enlist her 
 father's sympathy in behalf of Skoot. Warham 
 decided to meet her at the depot, and co-operate 
 with her in her efforts to at least secure bail for 
 the prisoner. 
 
 Warham advanced from the waiting-room just 
 as she stepped from the train. But the next in- 
 stant he fell back, for here was the fellow with 
 the scarred face calmly appropriating both the 
 young lady and her belongings. 
 
 "Your mother told me you were coming to- 
 night," Warham heard him say, as he hailed a cab, 
 "else I should not have known. How can you be 
 so cruel?" 
 
 Warham stood gazing after the retreating cab. 
 "Well, I 'm beat," he ejaculated, with more em- 
 phasis than elegance. He rubbed his forehead and 
 pinched himself to make sure that he was not 
 dreaming. By degrees it became settled in his 
 mind that there was some understanding between
 
 124 SKOOT 
 
 Miss Doane and this fellow, whom he felt sure 
 was the man he was seeking. 
 
 That evening he called at the Doane mansion, 
 and had a guarded conversation with Margaret 
 and her father. He was secretly gratified to learn 
 of Margaret's feelings towards Merton. The next 
 morning he rang the Merton bell, and was ad- 
 mitted by the melancholy footman. In the indica- 
 tions of wealth around him, Merton's motive in 
 robbing the old man seemed inexplicable. He 
 was genuinely puzzled, and by the time the young 
 man himself appeared was almost convinced that 
 he was on the wrong track. 
 
 Warham presented a note from Mr. Doane, in 
 which he casually asked Merton to visit the old 
 miser with the messenger, and look up the "facts 
 in the case." Under a show of sympathy for Mar- 
 tin, and in deference to Margaret's father, Merton 
 reluctantly assented. 
 
 "Confound old Doane," he muttered, fiercely, 
 as he was preparing for this unpleasant errand; 
 "why need he mix up with this? Professional 
 curiosity be hanged! Well, old Martin never saw 
 me, and hence can not possibly recognize me. So 
 it 's safe enough, after all."
 
 SKOOT 125 
 
 Mrs. O'Flannigan admitted the two gentlemen. 
 Merton was very bold, knowing that Skoot was 
 locked up, and that he had no friends to sift the 
 matter for him. He expressed great sympathy 
 for Martin, and trusted that those who were con- 
 cerned in his misfortune might be speedily brought 
 to justice. 
 
 Both Martin and Ralph were completely de- 
 ceived. Not so Mrs. Flannigan. 
 
 Her honest Irish heart threatened to burst 
 against its calico casements; every time she 
 thought of Skoot, helpless in his cell, her anger 
 waxed hotter and hotter. 
 
 "Ye 've never been out in this neighborhood 
 before ?" she said to Merton, after a pause in which 
 she showed unmistakable symptoms of choking. 
 "Sure, such a foine gintleman would have no 
 r'ason for comin' into such a poor place. An' did 
 ye never hear of Pinch Alley, ayther, an' was ye 
 never there ?" 
 
 Merton glanced at her with a quick suspicion, 
 but he saw only a stout, stupid, coarse-handed 
 woman who was evidently a victim to asthma or 
 some such disease. 
 
 "Pinch Alley?" he repeated, lightly. "I do not
 
 126 SKOOT 
 
 know such a locality. Pray, madam, have you 
 friends in Pinch Alley?" 
 
 "I have that," she replied, grimly. "There 's 
 wan of thim in the room beyant as would like to 
 see ye. Now then, Mrs. Heegins," as the door 
 opened and Skoot's amiable sister-in-law appeared 
 on the scene, "do ye look well at this blatherin' 
 spalpeen, an' tell me, did ye ever see his oogly 
 face before ?" 
 
 The newcomer leveled her smutty forefinger at 
 Merton with an expression of disdain. "Did I?" 
 she said. "Did n't he come to my house and give 
 me money for telling him about Skoot? An' 
 did n't my man beat me till I give him the money, 
 and never a drink did I get out of it? O yes, I 
 remember him, and his visit, by the beatin' I got 
 afterwards. Look at him now ! He 's the color 
 of a punkin'! Ask him now did he ever come to 
 Pinch Alley with a muffler over his face!" 
 
 In fact, Merton was quailing perceptibly before 
 this unexpected onslaught ; but he rallied his wits, 
 and prepared to laugh it out of court. This igno- 
 rant woman what was her testimony worth? 
 
 "You have a great imagination, my good 
 woman," he ?^id, mockingly ; "a great imagination,
 
 SKOOT 127 
 
 since I have been out of town for nearly a week, 
 and only returned yesterday. I should have no 
 trouble to prove that. So have a care, have a 
 care." 
 
 Then he turned to Warham. "Now, as this in- 
 teresting performance has lasted long enough, and 
 as I deferred business of importance to accommo- 
 date the gentleman who desired me to make this 
 call, I will go." 
 
 But he had not counted on Mrs. O'Flannigan's 
 two hundred avoirdupois, which completely filled 
 the doorway, and effectually blocked his way. 
 
 "Perhaps ye do n't remember, ayther, of run- 
 ning into somebody in the yard wid a lantern the 
 night the old man was robbed? I saw ye, plain, 
 an' I 'd swear to yer coontenance in any court in 
 the land. Perhaps, again, ye do n't remimber of 
 standin' at old Martin's windy the day wid yer 
 face to a crack? I see yez then, an' there 's others 
 as stand ready to swear to yer oidentitee." 
 
 "Others?" repeated Merton, weakly. "Others? 
 What do you mean? Are you crazy? What is 
 all this about ?" 
 
 "Others is what I said," repeated the woman, 
 grimly. "Others !" She crossed herself rapidly,
 
 128 SKOOT 
 
 muttering- beneath her breath, "May the saints for- 
 give me ! It 's to save the poor bye as did no 
 harm." 
 
 She stretched out her hand, and began to count 
 the ringers on it. "There was Pedro Carpi, the 
 fruit-dealer, who was restin' his horses in the shade 
 beyant. That 's wan. Then there was Johnny 
 Derby, the carpenter, jist comin' to his house fur 
 a box of nails he forgot. That 's two. Then there 
 was Jake Flint, him as kapes the blacksmith-shop 
 jist beyant. That 's three. Then there was me old 
 man, Tom O'Flannigan, bringin' me the washin' 
 ag'inst the next day. That 's four. Then there 
 was " 
 
 "Stop! stop!" said the now thoroughly fright- 
 ened Merton. "These people that you mention 
 what did they see? They did not see me?" 
 
 "That they did, ivery last wan of thim," as- 
 sured the woman, with another mental petition for 
 pardon. "An' they stand ready to say so at the 
 roight time and place. Ah !" leveling a scornful 
 finger at Merton, who was trembling visibly, "ye 'd 
 lay it onter the bye, would ye ? On the poor bye, 
 wid no one to fight fur him ! But ye did n't count 
 on Bridget O'Flannigan, that ye did n't !"
 
 SKOOT 129 
 
 "It 's all up, Merton," spoke Warham, quietly. 
 "You must submit to arrest. Your motive is a 
 mystery to me, but the law must take its course, 
 and these witnesses be heard. Officer, do your 
 duty." 
 
 A gentleman, in civilian's dress, now advanced 
 from the doorway, and laid his hand upon the 
 shrinking Merton's shoulder. 
 
 "I was employed by Mr. Doane to run this 
 game down," he said ; "but how well I should have 
 succeeded, but for Mrs. O'Flannigan yonder, I 
 could not say. But, my friend, you must agree 
 to my company for a while." 
 
 "There is one way, perhaps, that this may be 
 stopped before going much further," said War- 
 ham, glancing at Martin, who was nearly stupefied 
 from amazement. "If the money were to be re- 
 turned, perhaps the old man would withdraw his 
 charges against Skoot. What do you say, Uncle 
 Martin? If you had your money back you would 
 not prosecute the boy he did not rob you, you 
 know and would you give this fellow a chance to 
 get out of town?" 
 
 The old man nodded his head vigorously, un- 
 able to speak. "Meanwhile." said the officer to 
 9
 
 130 SKOOT 
 
 Merton, "we will keep company until the money 
 is restored." 
 
 Before nightfall Martin was again in possession 
 of his hoard. No words of Warham or any one 
 else could induce him to put it in safe deposit. 
 He must have his gold where he could see it, 
 touch it, and only wished that they might all be 
 gone that he could be alone with it again.
 
 WARHAM was not able to gain admittance 
 to the jail until the next morning. Mean- 
 while the necessary steps in the legal procedure 
 towards Skoot's release had been accomplished, 
 largely through Mr. Doane's influence. At nine 
 o'clock the next day the heavy doors swung open. 
 Skoot was free. 
 
 It was hard for him to realize the quick re- 
 versal of experiences that had been his during 
 the last few days. Neither his brother nor sister- 
 in-law had visited him in his confinement. As he 
 thought of Pinch Alley he set his teeth hard. No, 
 he would never go back there never, never. But 
 what next? 
 
 Warham's first move was to take his boy to 
 131
 
 132 SKOOT 
 
 a restaurant and provide him what Skoot called 
 "a square." Going from there, they came to 
 a brilliantly-lighted saloon, glittering with rich fur- 
 nishings a saloon of a very different appearance 
 from those with which Skoot was familiar. The 
 massive chandeliers were reflected in paneled mir- 
 rors that reached from floor to ceiling; crystal 
 sparkled on marble tables ; an open piano stood in 
 an attractive corner, and white-aproned waiters 
 flew here and there. 
 
 Warham paused, and slapped Skoot familiarly 
 on the shoulder. "Come in and have a drink," 
 he said; "I '11 stand/' 
 
 "No, sir-ree," was the emphatic rejoinder; "I 
 know what that stuff '11 do. None o' that fur me." 
 
 Warham laughed delightedly at the result of 
 his experiment in testing him. "Stick to your con- 
 victions, Skoot," he said, "and you '11 make a man 
 yet, in spite of Pinch Alley." 
 
 A bath at the rooms of the Young Men's Chris- 
 tian Association, where Warham seemed to be 
 well acquainted, a visit to the clothing and shoe 
 stores, thence to the barber's, where the stubby 
 red hair was cut and oiled and coaxed into proper 
 shape, and the transformation wrought in Skoot
 
 SKOOT 133 
 
 was almost as great as that wrought in Pansy. He 
 walked along with his new friend, thinking much 
 and saying little, until Warham turned in at the 
 Union Station. Then he drew back in suspicion, 
 and eyed Warham distrustfully. 
 
 "Where yer takin' me?" he demanded. "This 
 game ain't plain." 
 
 "It 's all right," answered Warham, who by this 
 time had become deeply interested in his protege ; 
 "you are going to new friends, who will help you 
 to make a man of yourself, and to Pansy. She 
 is very sick, and has called for you night and day. 
 Tickets for Idlewood, two," he said to the man 
 behind the glass, at the same time pushing the 
 change under the window. "Quick, Skoot, that 's 
 our train." 
 
 They were not much more than seated, and the 
 train fairly under way, when the inevitable news- 
 boy made his appearance. "Evening pape's, all 
 the evening pape's, Herald, Star, Beacon, Globe. All 
 about the big failure, and the suicide." 
 
 Warham bought a paper, and ran his eyes down 
 the staring headlines. Merton, Sr., the million- 
 aire broker, had shot himself in the bathroom of 
 his house. His affairs were badly complicated,
 
 134 SKOOT 
 
 and involved many others in ruin. The widow and 
 son were penniless. 
 
 There were sad hearts at Idlewood. Pansy had 
 been steadily sinking all day. Miss Percy had 
 wired the child's father of Pansy's condition, yet 
 secretly hoping that he would not come. The doc- 
 tor had been at the little cottage all day. So had 
 Mrs. Traverse and Aunt Jolly, who in this hour 
 dropped all her oddities, and was only a plain, kind- 
 hearted woman, of large sympathy. Ralph War- 
 ham had not returned; but they had received a 
 message from him, and were expecting him that 
 evening. 
 
 Pansy was still delirious, but quieter than she 
 had been. Just as the sun was going down in a 
 glory of purple and gold, royal as for the corona- 
 tion of a soul, she called for Miss Percy. The 
 deaconess was close at her side. 
 
 "I 'm here, Pansy darling," she said, tenderly 
 pressing the little hand; "and so are Molly and 
 Margaret and Dora, waiting for you to speak to 
 them. We have been with you a long time, but 
 you did not know us." 
 
 "I want to tell you, and tell them," faltered the 
 thin little voice, "how much I thank you all for
 
 SKOOT 135 
 
 being so kind to me. It 's almost time for Jesus 
 to come and take me. Is it night now? Do you 
 think he will come to-night?" 
 
 They were all weeping silently, and only Frank 
 Traverse found voice to answer her. 
 
 "It will soon be morning for you, dear child," 
 he answered, with marked tenderness. "You shall 
 see the sunlight on the everlasting hills. 'There 
 shall be no night there. And there shall be no 
 more death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither 
 shall there be any more pain.' " 
 
 The solemn change that those who have looked 
 on death may recognize was overspreading her 
 face. 
 
 "What is it, Pansy ? What is it you want ?" for 
 her hands were groping, groping, groping. 
 
 "The girls," she whispered; "tell them to 
 kneel beside me so they can see Jesus when 
 he comes. I want them to love Jesus they can 
 do so much for him. I could not do anything 
 if I staid only a little blind girl. There," as they 
 knelt around her, "do n't cry, do n't cry. I shall 
 be so happy when Jesus comes." 
 
 She stopped for breath, though the night 
 breeze came to them from woods and lake. They
 
 136 SKOOT 
 
 had brought the cot out to the porch, that she 
 might breathe more easily, and the wind stirred 
 the damp rings of hair on her forehead. 
 
 After a little she moved slightly. "Sing," she 
 whispered, "sing of heaven." 
 
 How hard it was! Deep in the heart of each 
 of the girls was the realization of overwhelming 
 human helplessness; but with a quick seeking of 
 help, Miss Percy softly started the hymn she had 
 heard Pansy sing to the children of Pinch Alley 
 the gentle mother's hymn. One by one the other 
 voices joined in. 
 
 " My heavenly home is bright and fair, 
 Nor pain nor death can enter there ; 
 Its glittering towers the sun outshine, 
 That heavenly mansion shall be mine." 
 
 They looked up at the stars, beginning to glow 
 in the sky above. But the eyes on the pillow, with 
 a vision not of earth, looked past star and tear- 
 mist, and beheld the lights in the Father's house 
 even then shining forth her welcome. Reverently 
 they sang, 
 
 "My father's house is built on high, 
 Far, far above the starry sky." 
 
 There were hurried steps on the walk, and 
 Ralph Warham was in their midst, and Skoot's
 
 SKOOT 137 
 
 heart was breaking over the wasted little form on 
 the cot. Vainly she tried to lift her arms to his 
 neck, whispering to him again and again of her 
 joy. The boy could not control the great sobs 
 that shook him, and his tears feel fast. 
 
 "Do n't cry, Skoot ; dear, kind Skoot," she mur- 
 mured. "I am so glad to go, and I will tell Jesus 
 how good you were to me, and how I loved you. 
 O, I should not be so happy if I did not feel 
 that I should see you, every one, coming home 
 to heaven. Do n't forget little Pansy. She wants 
 you all to love Jesus." 
 
 There was a sinking movement of the restless 
 arms, a peace on the groping hands, something 
 that sounded like a sigh, and all of suffering, of 
 poverty, of lovelessness, was forever ended for 
 Pansy. The child of the tenements had become 
 the child of heaven.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ON a day three years later our girls were again 
 assembled in Margaret's room. There was 
 some sadness, as well as merriment, in this, the 
 last of the meetings that had become so dear to 
 them. The room was in a state of confusion. 
 Drawers were thrown open, and trunks, partly 
 packed, stood in the middle of the floor. Mar- 
 garet was to be married to Frank Traverse. 
 
 The summer at Idlewood had wrought a won- 
 derful change in them all. From the time of 
 solemn heart-searching that followed Pansy's death 
 Margaret had returned to her home of elegance 
 with new motives and purposes. The life that had 
 heretofore been self-centered became Christ-cen- 
 tered. All her wealth and advantages now were 
 138
 
 SKOOT 139 
 
 but opportunities of doing God's work. Dora, 
 with the absoluteness that underlies such dispo- 
 sitions as hers, brought her consecrated culture 
 to the work, and was one of the most valued med- 
 ical workers in the League Settlement of the 
 "slum" districts. Her old coldness and reserve 
 had given way to a serene self-poise of heart and 
 life a most admirable attainment. 
 
 Skoot was making great progress in school, 
 spending his spare hours in Mr. Warham's office. 
 He had decided on the practice of law as his pro- 
 fession, and friends were not wanting to help him 
 through college and law-school. Better than all, 
 he was fast developing a strong Christian char- 
 acter, and daily taking on added nobility of life. 
 
 But Molly impulsive, warm-hearted, gener- 
 ous Molly how shall we describe the change in 
 her? Her eyes were as mirthful, her dimples as 
 roguish, her lips as smiling, as of old, but she wore 
 a modest black dress, and a little bonnet lay in her 
 lap. Molly had become a deaconess ! 
 
 Nay, dear Christian of older years and more 
 limited outlook, do not shake your head and frown. 
 You do not know how Molly's voice falls, like 
 living water, upon the parched and dusty clods
 
 140 SKOOT 
 
 of human heartache; you do not know that her 
 small hand is a lever strong enough to raise many 
 a stricken girl from shame to useful and noble 
 living; you do not know how her face shines like 
 a star in the dark, murky, reeking places of earth. 
 Surely the sad old world has need of just such 
 faces as hers framed in the white ties ! 
 
 "The last one of us all whom we should have 
 expected to develop into a full-fledged deaconess," 
 Margaret was saying. "What a transformation 
 in all our lives that summer at Idlewood made ! 
 Surely Pansy's prayer for us was realized." 
 
 "Her life was so short, in years," said Dora, 
 "yet her influence is going out through our lives 
 unto others, and through them still on, further 
 than we can at all comprehend. Only when we 
 reach heaven shall we realize how far." 
 
 "We never knew or sympathized with the un- 
 fortunate until we knew her. Since then it has 
 been our greatest happiness to mingle with them 
 and try to help them. Sometimes I wonder why 
 men and women should ever crowd and climb to 
 gain the high places, when the Master himself 
 walked such lowly paths. Surely he chose life in 
 the valley in preference to the mountain-top."
 
 SKOOT 141 
 
 "The Master walks in the valley yet," said 
 Molly, reverently, "and it is the joy of our lives 
 that we meet him there. Blossoms grow there 
 that are not found on the summits blossoms of 
 peace, and content, and trust. There may be gold 
 in the mountains, but there are lilies in the valley. 
 
 * The bvooks are shallow on the mountain side, 
 Though bright and sparkling in their onward flow, 
 But the deep stream rolls silently below. 
 
 He who would understand the meaning wide 
 Of life, must pass where bubbling fountains fail, 
 And stoop to drink the waters of the vale." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, then 
 Molly went on, reverently as before : 
 
 "When I think of my danger when we first 
 knew Pansy, and all that God has saved me from 
 through her sweet ministry, I feel that a long life 
 of service would not be enough in which to show 
 my gratitude. Dear little Pansy!" 
 
 And Margaret said softly, "It is well with the 
 child."
 
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