TIM’S PARTNER.
BY AMANDA M. DOUGLAS.
“AIN’T got nothin’, Miss May, to set up a chap in housekeepin’—have you?”
“Housekeeping!” the young lady cried in surprise. “Why, surely, Tim, you are not thinking of—” and she paused, suddenly eying the figure before her from head to foot.
A strange, misshapen creature it was. He was barely eighteen, but he might have been twice that from the looks of his face, which was thin and sharp, and wrinkled about the eyes and forehead, surmounted by a shock of sandy brown hair, and thatched with an old gray felt hat going to tatters. A short, humpbacked figure, with a body out of all proportion to the pinched, slender legs. The arms were long, and finished by hands twice too large. A poor, pitiful object; yet there was something wistful and touching in the great brown eyes.
“Of gettin’ married? Was you goin’ to say that, Miss May? He! he! A gal would want a husband mighty bad, wouldn’t she, when she picked up such a crooked stick? The good Lord knows why he made me this way, I s’pose,” falling for a moment into a reflective mood. “But ’tain’t that, Miss May. I’ve got a room of old Mother Budd, and a stove, and a mattress, and now I’ve taken a pardner—Jerry; but you don’t know nothin’ ’bout him. He’s a little chap what’s had a drunken father all his life, and has to get about on two crutches—worse’n me, a good sight,” looking down with pride on his thin legs and substantial feet. “And now his father’s sent up to the Island, ’nd he had no place to go to. So we’ve set up together. He’s smart in some ways, is Jerry—kin sew like a gal, and cook, and we’ll get along just jolly. Only if we had some dishes and things. You see we have to pay a dollar a week in advance, for old Mother Budd’s sharp at a bargain, lookin’ out for tricks. Then I bought some coal an’ wood, an’ that took about all my spare capital.” He gave a sort of humorous grin, as he said “capital.”
He had shoveled off the snow and cleaned out the gutter to perfection. Miss May had paid him thirty cents. After a moment she said,—
“Come down in the basement, Tim. I should not wonder if we could find you an outfit. Two boys housekeeping! It’s rather funny!”
Tim scraped and wiped his feet, stood his shovel in the corner of the area, and followed the young lady within. All winter he had been on hand to clean the sidewalk and put in coal. Besides his wages she had given him a few old garments, and his gratitude had touched her. Now she felt rather amused.
Bridget gave him a somewhat unfriendly stare as he entered the kitchen. She never could understand why a lady like Miss May should take fancies “to beggars and that sort of trash.” Dr. May looked rather serious about it, and wished her mother had lived, or that aunt Helen knew how to interest her in other people. He saw quite enough of the misery and wretchedness of the world without having his pretty young daughter breaking her heart over it.
“Come and warm yourself, Tim. Bridget, where are those cracked and checked dishes and old tins I picked out the other day? And there are some chairs down cellar. O, and those old comfortables I laid away.”
“Sure, miss, I was goin’ to ask you if I mightn’t give the dishes to my cousin, Ann Flynn, who is to be married on Sunday night. They’d be a godsend to her.”
“We’ll divide them;” and Miss May smiled.
Bridget very unwillingly opened the closet door. The idea of giving china dishes to a beggar! She grudged everything that could go to a “cousin.”
Miss May picked out two cups and saucers, four plates, two bowls, and several miscellaneous articles, including a block-tin tea-pot and two or three dilapidated tin pails.
“O, Miss May! Why, we’ll feel as grand as kings!” and the eyes were lustrous with gratitude.
“Here’s a basket to pack them in. Bridget, give him a little tea and sugar, and some of the cold meat left yesterday. I’ll run up stairs and find some bed-clothes.”
She came back laden. Tim’s face glowed to its utmost capacity, which was large, seeing that he had been out in the cold all the morning.
“There, I haven’t any table, but all these will help. You are sure your partner, as you call him, is a trusty fellow?”
“He’s good as gold, though he hain’t no legs worth speakin’ of. He used to sell papers on the cars, but he stumbled one day, ’nd had one cut off, and t’other hurt. His father used to keep him round beggin’, but he’s bound to have nice times now along o’ me. If you could hear him sing, Miss May—it’s like a bird hangin’ out a winder. When the weather comes warm he kin sell apples and flowers, and sich. I’ll have a little spare capital bimeby to start him with. An’ it’ll be next to havin’ folks of one’s very own. I never had any, you see. Not that I’d want a father like Jerry’s. Poor little chap, he’s had rough times, what with the beatin’ and the starvin’.”
Miss May winked a tear out of her blue eyes. How ready these street Arabs were to stand by one another! Would anybody in her “set” take in a poor brother unhesitatingly?
Tim was grateful from the very depths of his soul, and it was no mean one. He bundled the articles in a great pack, and shouldered them, chairs and all, and drew his rough sleeve across his eyes, while his good-bye had a very husky sound.
If Miss May could have heard the rejoicing!
And yet it was a miserable little room, up three flights of stairs, with only one window looking into a rear house. Their bedstead had been made of dry goods boxes, and when they covered it with her clean chintz comfortable, and arrayed their closet shelves with the dishes, leaving the door open so they could feast their eyes on their new possessions, they could not resist giving three cheers; and Tim was actually coaxed into dancing a breakdown, while Jerry clapped “Finnegan’s Wake” with his thin hands on the one good knee he had left. It was a blustering March day, but they two had a delightfully warm room and a feast. What amused them most of all was beautiful Miss May’s idea that Tim was going to be married.
“Tim,” said Jerry solemnly, when their laugh had ended, “I don’t know how girls feel about such poor cripples as you and me, but my opinion is that my mammy would have been glad enough to had a husband with the great, tender heart you’ve got. Poor mammy! I’m glad she’s in heaven along of the angels, and I’m glad she don’t know about my legs. God wouldn’t tell her when she was so happy—would He, Tim?”
“No, He wouldn’t,” said Tim over a great lump in his throat.
There never were such happy days in the life of either as those that followed. Jerry cooked, kept accounts, washed, ironed, and mended, and as the days grew warmer began to do quite a thriving business in button-hole bouquets, standing on the corner as the men went up town. Now and then he sold popular photographs on commission, or a lot of choice bananas.
Tim was brisk and active, and caught up all manner of odd jobs. Now and then he saw Miss May. Once he sent Jerry with a bouquet of flowers.
“I wanted you to see him, Miss May,” he said afterward, hanging around until he caught sight of her. “He don’t look pale and peaked, as he did when we first set up. It’s good livin’, you see, and no beatin’s. And we have just the jolliest times you ever heard of. He don’t want me to call him anything but pardner. I do believe that ere little chap would give his life for me.”
“O, Tim, how good you are!” she cried. “You shame richer and wiser people. It is very noble to take that poor little boy by the hand and love and protect him.”
“Noble!” echoed Tim, pulling his forelock and coloring through the tan and grime. “Why, Miss May, he’s a sight of help and comfort to me; better’n any wife would be, ’cause, you see, no woman who’d take me ever’d be half so good.”
“Tim,” she said, opening her dainty Russia leather pocket-book, “I want to add a little mite to your happiness. I am going to the country soon, for the whole summer. I want you to take this, and spend it just as I tell you. You and Jerry must go on some nice excursion; there will be plenty of them presently. Get a good dinner, and take all the delight you can, and remember to tell me all about it afterward.”
“O, Miss May, you are too good for anybody’s folks! Indeed, I’ll tell you every word. And can I come again next winter to shovel snow and do chores?”
“Yes, indeed. I shall be glad to have you. God bless you and your partner, poor, brave little soul. I shall think of you often.”
“I never see an angel ’xcept the ones in the picters with wings, but I know Miss May is one,” said Tim to himself.
Tim and his partner counted their money that night. Business had been flourishing of late.
“There’s twenty-one dollars that we’ve saved up free and clear, and the lady’s five. Tim, you had better put it in the bank;” and Jerry’s eyes sparkled feverishly.
“I’d have to hide the bank book then;” and Tim chuckled. “Think of havin’ a bank account! Why, we’d feel a’most like Astor, or the old Commodore.”
“But I wish you would, Tim. I’m afraid to have so much in the house. It will be something against winter when business is dull. Now we’re making plenty to live on. Won’t you, Tim?”
“To be sure I will—to-morrow. And we’ll hide the book in that same chink in the floor. No one would think of looking there. And we’ll have a rousin’ time on some ’xcursion. We’ll choose one with a brass band, and have a little dance in one corner by ourselves. There isn’t the beat of Miss May in this whole world.”
“She’s good, but then she’s rich, you know. Five dollars doesn’t look so large to her as it does to you and me. But, Tim, I love you better than a hundred Miss Mays.”
Tim chuckled and winked hard, but said never a word.
He was off early in the morning, as he had an important job on hand. Jerry would have dinner all ready at noon, and he would put on his “store clothes” and go down to the bank like any other swell. My eyes! Weren’t they in clover?
Tim could not get home until three; but he had earned two dollars since morning. They each had a key to the door, and finding it locked, Tim drew out his. Jerry had gone to business; afternoons were his time. There was no dinner set out on the table and covered with a napkin. A curious chill of something like neglect went to Tim’s warm heart; but he whistled it away, found a bite of cold meat and some oatmeal. Then he decided he would run over on Broadway and tell Jerry of his good luck. It was too late to think of going to the bank.
No little chap sat on the well-known corner. Tim walked up a block, down again, and studied the cross street sharply. Had he sold out and gone home? Or may be he had taken the money to the bank! Tim ran home again. Yes, that was it. The money was gone.
He waited and waited. Somehow he did not feel a bit jolly; but he boiled the kettle and laid the supper. No Jerry yet. What had become of him? Had he put on his best suit?
They had made a clothes-press out of a dry goods box, and Tim went to inspect it. Why—Jerry’s shelf was entirely empty. Shirts, stockings, yes, everything, even to his old every-day suit, gone. Tim dropped on the floor, and hid his face in his hands. Had Jerry—
It was funny, but Tim squared off and gave the box a thump that bruised his knuckles. It seemed to him that the box had breathed a suspicion that Jerry had stolen the money and run away. Then he kicked it, and sat down and cried as if his heart would break. His pardner, little Jerry, a thief! No, he would never, never believe it.
He sat up till midnight, and it seemed to him there had never been such loneliness since the world began. Then the next morning he made some inquiries. Their two nearest neighbors were washerwomen. Both had been out all day. No one had seen Jerry.
If Jerry’s father were not in prison—but he had been sent up in February for a year, and here it was only the last of June. Or if there had been any evil companions hanging around; but Jerry and every scrap of his belongings, as well as the money, had surely disappeared.
There was no gay excursion for Tim. He brooded over his desertion, and grew morose, began to save his money again, and shut himself up like a hermit. The poor, crippled boy that he had taken to his heart, that he had warmed and fed! Ah! it was very bitter. Perhaps not even his beautiful Miss May would care to remember him.
So he did not go near her. Autumn came on apace. One dreary November day, when he could find nothing to do, he turned homeward, weary and heart-sick. Ah, if there was only a cheery voice to welcome him!
Some one stood by his door, a lady in dainty attire. Some one caught his arm, and cried,—
“O, Tim, I’m so glad you have come! I have been waiting almost an hour. Tim, I’ve found little Jerry, and he is dying; but he asks for you constantly. Come right away. Don’t lose a moment.”
“Jerry!” in a sort of dazed way, as if he but half understood. “Little Jerry—my pardner? O, Miss May—no, you can’t mean it—dying?”
“Yes. Hurry, Tim. I’ve waited so long already!”
They walked down the stairs, scudded through the streets to a horse car. It seemed to Tim as if they rode an hour. Then they alighted, and a short walk brought them to a decent looking tenement house. Up one flight of stairs, and the door opened.
“Is it Tim?” asked a weak voice.
Tim threw himself on his knees by the bedside, and kissed the sweet, wan face with the tenderness of a mother. For some minutes only sobs were heard.
“You told him, Miss May?”
“No, Jerry. We hurried so there was no chance. But I will tell him every word.”
“O, Tim, you didn’t think I was a thief? It broke my heart to go. It was father. He got out some way, and had been watching us. He came that night when we were so happy counting our money, but he didn’t dare offer to take me away then. The next morning he walked in with a paper, which he said was a warrant for me, and that if I dared to say a word he’d send me to the Refuge. I picked up my things—I was so afraid of him—and then he wanted the money, and swore if I didn’t get it he’d murder me. I told him I wouldn’t; so he tied my hands and bound my mouth, lest I should scream, and then he hunted everywhere; and O, Tim, he found it! He took me right out of the city with him to a vile den, where they wanted to make a thief of me.”
“O, Jerry, dear, don’t talk; it takes away all your strength. God knows I never could have a hard thought of you now;” and Tim broke down.
“Just a little. I couldn’t get back to you. They watched me, and beat me until I was sore and stiff; and there I staid until only a fortnight ago, when one night I gave them the slip. I wanted to come back and tell you how it was, but the way was so far, and I was so tired, so tired! Then I fell down in the street, and a good woman picked me up and brought me in here, where it’s so nice and clean, Tim, and such a quiet place to die in! And then I don’t seem to remember much until yesterday, when Miss May came in, and this morning, when she brought her father. And then I wanted to see you, to tell you—Tim, if I could live and earn the money—you were so good to me—so good. Tim, if you could hold me in your arms again! Miss May said I would find mammy in heaven; that God cared for poor little boys. Does He, Tim? I like you to tell me. And will you come and let me be your pardner again? Is it very far? Kiss me, Tim. You know now I wasn’t a thief. Miss May sang something yesterday about opening the starry gates—”
“At the portals Jesus waits;
All the heavenly host, begin;
Open wide the starry gates,
Let the little traveller in,”
sang the sweet voice over a tremulous sob.
Closer clung the thin arms, and the cool cheek was pressed against Tim’s, hot with burning tears. The little hands that had kept their house tidy, and prepared the simple meals, lay limp and useless. The eyes could not see any more, but the lips smiled and murmured a few incoherent words, soft, sweet, and then an awesome silence. The little waif Jerry had gone over the river.
“O, Miss May,” cried Tim, “they will take him in—won’t they? For, you see, the poor little chap didn’t have a square chance in this world! He’s been kicked and cuffed about, and had to go on crutches, an’ been half starved many a time, but he wouldn’t lie nor steal for all that. He ought to be happy somewheres. O, Jerry! Jerry! I loved you so! And you was true to the last!”
“They will take him in,” Miss May says, with solemn tenderness. And presently she unclasps the arms that are wound around Jerry’s neck, lays the poor hands straight, and leads Tim over by the window. He looks at her with dumb, questioning eyes, as if he would fain have her fathom the mystery that he knows so little about. She brushes away some tears; but O, what can she say to comfort him? For Jerry was all he had.
Presently Tim comes back and kisses the cold lips and stares at the strange beauty overspreading the wan face.
“O, Miss May,” he cries, “do you suppose I could ever earn enough to pay for his being buried in some country place, where there’d be a few flowers and a tree growing over him? I’d work all my life long. For he’d like it so. I can’t bear to think of having him carried away—”
“No,” she says, with a shiver. “I will see about it, Tim.” Then she gives a few orders to the woman, and goes away, leaving Tim with his “pardner.”
Dr. May shook his head at his daughter at first, and said it was folly; but two days after he had him buried in a pretty rural cemetery, with a white marble slab above his head containing two words—“Tim’s Partner.” And Tim, who takes care of the doctor’s horse now, and does odd chores, pauses occasionally and says to Miss May, “There never can be anybody quite like Jerry to me again. Over in the other country we’ll be pardners forever.”
