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." University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000 131 612 4