This was rather more help than Berty had bargained for. She did not at all like the notion of robbing Tim of his shoes; for, if the truth must be told, she was much more tender of Tim’s feet than of her own.
“Oh no, Tim,” said she, earnestly; “I did not mean that. I don’t want you to help me with money, for I mean to earn it all myself; and I have prayed, and I know that the Christ-child (that’s Jesus, you know) will help me. I’m going to look sharp in the gutters, and I shall find heaps of things; or else I shall do something for the passengers, and they’ll pay me ever so much. I’m not afraid about the money; but you see I’m not wise,—I can’t count much. Will you help me count the pennies, when I get them, and keep them for me till we get enough,—so Lieb shall not guess,—and go with me to buy the tree and things, so the market-men and the toy-sellers shall not cheat me. Only there’s one thing I want to buy all myself, and you mustn’t look then. Will you, Tim?”
“Yes,” said Tim, who had a famous project in his head of counting his own pennies in with Berty’s, and never telling her; “yes, Berty, I’ll do everything you ask me,—certain sure.”
“Then it’s all settled,” cried Berty, with a long sigh of satisfaction, the tapers of her Christmas tree shining brightly in her mind’s eye as she spoke,—“quite settled at last. And, Tim, here’s my crossing, and yonder’s yours; and you’ll see—you’ll see what a pile of pennies I’ll have to-night!”
“Well; good luck to you, Berty,” answered Tim, and scampered off.
If you had been near to watch little Berty that morning, I am sure you would have thought her the most industrious little rag-picker in all New York. She turned over very carefully the sweepings of the shops, ransacked all the rubbish in the gutters, and swept patiently at her crossing, keeping a sharp eye to the passengers meanwhile, for any chance to do them service; and yet, when she sat down, quite tired out, upon the curb-stone to eat her crust at noon, she had in her basket only the usual amount of cabbagestumps, and rags, and rusty nails, and in her pocket only the two pennies which a pleasant-looking gentleman had tossed her as he stepped out of the stage at the crossing.
It was very discouraging. And Tim, too, who scarcely ever failed to come round now and then for a bit of friendly chat, had never been near her all day. Berty was almost glad, since she had nothing to show him; and yet it gave her a forsaken feeling, which, added to the discouragement, almost made her cry.
By and by a drizzly rain came on, soaking her thin garments, chilling her blood, and making the bright tapers of the imaginary tree look very dim and distant through its dismal mist. Yet Berty would not allow herself to lose heart entirely: this was a famous time for the crossing, if only people would not be in such a hurry; for everybody was crowding to the stages to escape the rain. Perhaps, if she kept it very neat, so that the ladies should not soil their fine dresses, nor the gentlemen their shining boots, some of them might be grateful enough to fling her now and then a penny; and Berty did not think a penny so small now as she had done in the morning. At any rate she would try.
So she took her broom and swept away vigorously; and, sure enough, the pennies did come, one after another, ringing down upon the clean pavement, till Berty had counted ten; and then along came her pleasant-looking gentleman of the morning, and he tossed her a dime, with such a cheery smile, too, that Berty’s heart quite glowed within her, and the tapers shone out again brighter than ever.
But what was this which came tumbling down upon the pavement as the loaded stage rolled off,—not ringing at all, but with a heavy thump? Berty picked it up. A pocket-book of purple Russia leather, very fat and full. Whose could it be? The pleasant-looking gentleman’s? Very likely; for Berty remembered that he was the last to step upon the platform. So she held it up and shouted, and ran after the stage a moment; but nobody heeded, and she could never overtake it, that was certain. What should she do? Give it to the policeman? Doubtless he knew where the gentleman lived; policemen knew everything. Berty looked round, but, for a wonder, there was no policeman near. What should she do then? Take it to the station-house, or wait till the stage came down again and hand it to the conductor? He knew the gentleman, for she had seen them nod to each other. But what if he should not give it up; what, if he should keep it?