The Fool of the Family

By Bracebridge Hemyng

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The Fool of the Family

By BRACEBRIDGE HEMYNG

Author of the famous Harkaway stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

(Printed in the United States of America)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I. INTRODUCES THE READER TO TOMMY.]
[CHAPTER II. HOW SMITHERS FOUND CONSOLATION.]
[CHAPTER III. FUN ENDS IN TRAGEDY.]
[CHAPTER IV. A NIGHT IN A COFFIN.]
[CHAPTER V. THE MAN WITH ONE EYE.]
[CHAPTER VI. THE CONFIDENCE GAME.]
[CHAPTER VII. TOMMY MAKES A STRANGE VOYAGE.]
[CHAPTER VIII. THE WRONG SIGNALS.]
[CHAPTER IX. THE SMUGGLER.]
[CHAPTER X. LOST IN LONDON.]
[CHAPTER XI. TOMMY IN BUTTONS.]
[CHAPTER XII. AN ARTISTIC CHIMNEY SWEEPING.]
[CHAPTER XIII. TOMMY FINDS A FRIEND IN BOBSEY.]
[CHAPTER XIV. A DOSE FOR THE DOCTOR.]
[CHAPTER XV. A HASTY TRIP.]
[CHAPTER XVI. OUT WEST.]
[CHAPTER XVII. KILLED BY HIS FATHER.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. "WHO BREAKS, PAYS."]
[CHAPTER XIX. BOUND HOME.]
[CHAPTER XX. TOMMY'S COURAGEOUS RESOLVE.]
[CHAPTER XXI. FINDING A FATHER.]
[CHAPTER XXII. THE FINAL TRAGEDY.]

THE FOOL OF THE FAMILY.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES THE READER TO TOMMY.

"Mother!" exclaimed Mr. Smithers, as he came into the parlor about supper time one winter evening, "that boy's a fool."

Mrs. Smithers, who was a quiet-looking, blond little woman, about thirty-five years of age, looked up from a book she was reading, and regarded her husband with a weary air.

"What boy?" she asked, languidly.

"As if you didn't know?" replied Mr. Smithers.

"We have two," she said, calmly.

"Oh, that boy, Tommy."

"What has he done now?"

"Done! why he is always doing something absurd. I told him this morning, before I went out, to cut up all the wood in the yard."

"I'm sure he'd do anything you'd tell him," said Mrs. Smithers, in a tone of conciliation; "he's only too anxious to please. I am positive that he has been hard at work all day, for I heard him chopping and sawing."

"Yes," answered Mr. Smithers, "he's chopped and sawed a little too much. Not only did he cut up the wood, but he's pulled down the fences on both sides of the yard, torn up the supports of the grapevine, and even made firewood of the sawbuck."

"He's too full of zeal; in fact, the poor boy wants to do too much," Mrs. Smithers rejoined. "You oughtn't to blame him for that; as he grows older he'll know better."

"I doubt it, ma'am. I doubt it very much," replied her husband, seating himself before the stove.

Mr. Smithers was a tall, consequential man, in the prime of life, dark in complexion and not bad looking.

His wife was a widow when he married her, and she had one son, the Tommy of whom Smithers was now complaining.

Our friend was commonly called "Soft" Tommy, on account of the simplicity of his nature and the numerous mistakes he was constantly making.

His age was thirteen, and he was a pale, delicate-looking boy, with a mild voice and a dreamy eye, fair hair, thin lips and an undecided sort of mouth.

By her marriage with Mr. Smithers, Tommy's mother had two children, a boy and a girl, who had respectively received the high-sounding names of Harold Stamford Smithers and Alice Regina Smithers.

Mr. Smithers himself was a clerk in a New York dry-goods house, and he resided in a quiet part of Jersey City, about half a mile from the ferry.

He prided himself upon being high-toned, and above all things boasted that he was master in his own house.

Poor little Mrs. Smithers knew this to her cost, for she received many a scolding, especially on Tommy's account, without daring to "talk back."

Smithers was very fond of his own two children, Harold Stamford and Alice Regina, both of whom he spoiled dreadfully.

One was eleven, the other ten, and they were as disagreeable, self-willed and conceited as overindulgence could make them.

Perhaps Smithers had a stepfather's dislike for Tommy.

One thing is certain, he frequently beat him and rarely said a word to the others.

Mrs. Smithers always looked sad and worried, which was no wonder, as she had to put up with a great deal from her husband.

She was a bad manager, was idle, and hated a disturbance of any kind, so that the children might do almost anything without her interfering with them.

"I hope you didn't beat the boy," remarked Mrs. Smithers, after a pause.

"He ran too fast for me," replied Smithers, "and took refuge in neighbor Barker's house."

"He'll be all right there, and when he wants his supper he'll come in," said Mrs. Smithers.

"It's a pity we can't choose our neighbors!" exclaimed her husband. "There's that Barker—he's an undertaker; it's a ghastly trade, and I've remarked that Tommy is more friendly with Charley Barker, the coffin maker's son, than he is with his own brother and sister."

"He must have some one to play with."

"Granted; but he needn't associate with those beneath him."

"The Barkers are hard-working and very respectable," Mrs. Smithers ventured to observe.

"Oh, very!" answered Smithers, sarcastically; "very much so indeed. I'm not saying anything against them. Still, they are not on a par with us, and if your first husband was a mechanic and left you with an only child, an infant at that, to go and work and die in the Nevada mines, I am not supposed to share your tastes."

"Poor man," said Mrs. Smithers, "there was no work for him here. He thought he would do so much better for all of us out West. He promised to send for me and Tommy soon."

"Well, he died, and he couldn't help it," put in Smithers, who was in a bad temper.

"We can't always do what we propose; and Thompson, my dear, dear first husband, was as good as they make them."

"He was a bold and exceedingly vulgar kind of person," rejoined Mr. Smithers, in a withering tone of voice.

"I'm sure Thompson was as genteel as—as Smithers," said his wife.

"Possibly he may have been in your estimation; but we will not discuss the question. Be good enough to get my supper ready," replied Smithers, with a grand wave of the arm.

"I'll do that with pleasure, only do make some allowance for Tommy—you know he is subject to the chills."

"You give me a chill, talking so much. Where are Harold and Alice?"

"Gone visiting."

"Oh, yes. I forgot that I gave them permission this morning to visit the Macphersons. Highly respectable family, the Macphersons. I will go and bring them home in a couple of hours' time. The ground is slippery with the frozen snow, and they might fall and hurt themselves."

Mrs. Smithers sighed.

She wished her husband would be as kind to Tommy as he was to Harold Stamford and Alice Regina.

Smithers had taken the trouble to go to Fulton Market and buy six dozen oysters, which he wanted roasted, and his wife went to get them ready for supper.

Meanwhile Tommy, accompanied by Mr. Barker, the undertaker, entered the room.

Tommy hung behind at the door, for he was afraid of his father, but the undertaker, who was a fiery, shock-headed little man, free and easy in his manner, and fond of his glass and his pipe, walked right in.

"Good-evening, neighbor," he exclaimed. "I've brought your boy back."

"Ah! Barker! Pray take a seat," replied Smithers, who, though he disliked the undertaker, was secretly afraid of him.

"I can stand."

"Sit down, I say; you're just in time for supper. Oysters from Fulton Market. First-class, I tell you."

"No, no," said Barker. "I only came here with Tommy because he was afraid to come alone. You won't lick him, now?"

"I don't see what you have to do with it, really, Barker."

"He did not understand about cutting up the wood."

"That is the trouble of it; he never will understand," replied Smithers, with a complacent smile.

"He's a good boy enough, and he and my Charley get along together first rate."

"Stay to supper, and we'll talk this thing over."

"Well, I don't mind if I do, though it's more for Tommy's sake than for anything else," answered Barker.

"Tommy, our neighbor is right," said his father. "You probably did not mean to do wrong, and I will not whip you this time. Now, you can go down to your mother and see if there is anything you can do in the preparation of supper."

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir," responded Tommy, his face beaming with smiles, as he saw that Barker had got him off the thrashing he expected.

His father kept a rattan in the corner of the room, which he devoted to Tommy's sole use, it never being employed upon the favored persons of Harold Stamford and Alice Regina.

"Now, Smithers," said Barker, "you ought to let up on that boy."

"Why should I, when he's the fool of the family?"

"He can't help it."

"Will you admit he's a fool?"

"I guess he's a little soft, that's all, and your severity makes him no better."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Smithers. "Spare the rod and spoil the child."

"That's played out."

"Since when?"

"Long ago. Try kindness."

Mr. Smithers grew rather red in the face.

"I have every respect for you," he remarked, looking sideways at the stove. "But I don't see why you should interfere with my family affairs."

"Because I like the lad. Why don't you apprentice him to some one?"

"To whom?"

"To me, if you like. I'll take him."

Mr. Smithers laughed in a tremulous manner.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Apprentice him to an undertaker?"

"Why not? You might require his services sooner than you expect. If ours is not such a respectable trade as the dry-goods business, we are as much in request as you are. You clothe the living, we clothe the dead."

"I couldn't hear of such a thing," replied Smithers. "Besides, the boy hasn't finished his schooling. He knows nothing."

Tommy re-entered the room and spread a snow-white cloth over the table.

"There's a little man," said Barker, encouragingly. "What a nice tablecloth."

"'Tain't a tablecloth," replied Tommy. "It's a sheet. Mother says the clothes ain't out of the wash yet."

Mr. Smithers looked disgusted.

"Didn't I tell you he was a fool?" he exclaimed.

"He's only simple," replied Barker.

"What does he know? He's going to school next week, and I'll bet he can't tell you what he wants for books."

"I'll ask him," said Barker. "Come here, Tommy, won't you?"

Tommy approached him without any hesitation, and showed none of that fear which he exhibited when spoken to by his stepfather.

"How much money do you want for school books, Tom?" asked Barker.

"None at all," replied Tommy.

"Why not?"

"I don't like skule," said Tommy, with his hands behind his back.

"But you've got to go, and what will it cost?"

"About four dollars, sir."

"How's that?" demanded Mr. Smithers, sharply. "I bought Harold Stamford's books yesterday, and they didn't come to that. Name the books."

"Lemme see," answered Tommy. "Singin' book, 'rithmetic, jography."

"Well," said his stepfather, "the first is sixty cents, the second seventy-five, the third a dollar and twenty. I insist upon knowing how you make it out."

He took up the cane which stood in the corner and held it up threateningly.

"Don't hit me and I'll tell you," replied Tommy. "There's half a dollar for a new bat, a dollar for a pair of skates and a quarter for candy."

Mr. Barker burst out laughing.

"I tell you he's smart," he exclaimed, "and you can't punish him for telling the truth."

"I won't this time," replied Mr. Smithers. "Yet I don't half like this sort of thing. Go an' give the horse his supper, Tom."

"Yes, sir," replied Tommy.

He hurried off as if he was glad to get away.

CHAPTER II.

HOW SMITHERS FOUND CONSOLATION.

While Tommy was gone Mrs. Smithers came up and laid the table, for although her husband was high-toned, he did not choose to keep a servant.

In ten minutes Tommy came back.

"Did you feed the horse?" asked Mr. Smithers.

"I gave him the supper," replied Tommy; "but he wouldn't touch it."

"That's strange," remarked Smithers.

"I think that plug of yours is ailing," said Barker, "and it's a wonder to me why you keep him."

"Well, you see," replied Smithers, "I got him cheap, and having a good barn at the back, I thought he'd be handy to take to the ferry, and to go out with Sundays and holidays."

"That's so."

"Tommy," said Smithers, "what did you give him?"

The boy was about to answer when Mrs. Smithers rushed into the room.

"Where's the oysters?" she almost screamed.

"How should I know?" replied her husband. "Didn't I give them to you to cook?"

"You did, and I roasted them beautifully, took the top shells off, and left them on the stove in a big dish, while I went upstairs to tidy up."

Mr. Smithers bent a severe glance on Tommy.

"What did you give the horse?" he asked.

"The supper," replied Tommy.

"What?"

"The oysters. Thought that was what you meant."

Mrs. Smithers clasped her hands together, and uttered a cry.

"Do horses eat oysters?" demanded Smithers, furiously.

"How could I tell?" answered Tommy. "I've heard of donkeys eating thistles."

"What would you like to eat, you donkey?"

"A mild tongue," said Tommy.

"How do you mean, you idiot?"

"Do be quiet, dear," cried Mrs. Smithers.

"Am I to be insulted by this idiot of yours, madam?" thundered Smithers.

The wife raised her apron to her eyes and began to cry.

Smithers seized Tommy by the ear and pulled it, exclaiming:

"What do you mean? Are you luny?"

"I meant a beef tongue, not too much salted," replied Tommy.

"What did you do with the oysters?"

"Won't you lick me, if I tell you?"

"N-no."

"When I found the horse wouldn't look at them, I called Charley Barker, and we polished them off between us."

Mr. Smithers let go of Tommy's ear and looked at him ferociously.

"You young villain!" he exclaimed; "I'll skin you some of these days."

At this Mrs. Smithers burst into a fresh torrent of grief.

"Oh, that I should have to hear my boy called such a name!" she sobbed.

"Silence, woman!" roared her husband.

She sank into a chair, exhausted, and redoubled her groans and tears.

"See here," exclaimed Barker, "I'll send for some more. There's no harm done."

"No, you won't," replied Smithers. "You're just as bad as the boy. I could see you snickering all the time, and it's the last chance you'll have of coming into my house."

"I can get out of it," said Barker.

"Git!"

This was said in such a contemptuous manner that Barker had no alternative.

Putting on his hat, he went.

When he was gone, Smithers attempted to do what he had not dared to undertake while the undertaker was in the room.

Seizing his rattan, he rushed upon Tommy.

His mother threw herself between them, and Tommy escaped the intended blows, but his stepfather chased him around the room, uttering frantic cries.

The door being open, the boy thought it would be only prudent to make his escape.

"You rascal! you dunce!" cried Smithers. "The idea of giving oysters to horses! I'll be even with you!"

Tommy banged the door after him, and his stepfather, having put his hand on it, got badly crushed.

He withdrew his hand covered with blood, and as he sucked his fingers he danced an original fandango on the floor.

At this moment the door opened and a boy's form appeared.

Blinded with rage and smarting with pain, Smithers struck out with the cane.

"Oh, pa!" cried the boy; "what have I done? It's me, Harold. Look out, or you'll hit Ally."

Mr. Smithers groaned again.

In the passion of the moment he struck his own child, Harold, who, with his sister, had just returned from the party.

"My darling!" he exclaimed, "I'm truly sorry. It was that stupid, that silly, that insane beast, Tommy, I meant to chastise."

"What's he done, pa?"

"Don't ask me. Maria, I'm going down the street, to the drug store, to have my hand dressed."

"You shouldn't be so violent," she said.

"Just keep that boy out of my sight when I come back, that's all."

"I can't help his making mistakes."

"I'll kill or cure him, anyway."

"When shall you be back?"

"I don't know."

"Don't be long. I'm tired and hungry. We've had no supper," said Mrs. Smithers.

"I shall get mine outside."

"What am I to do? I've had none."

"You may thank your precious brat for that, madam. Give oysters to a horse! Oh, my, I'll never get over it!" cried Mr. Smithers.

Wrapping his injured hand in a handkerchief, he rushed from the house, leaving his wife alone with Harold Stamford and Alice Regina.

"What is the matter with pa, ma, dear?" asked Alice.

"Oh, don't bother me," said Mrs. Smithers, swaying herself to and fro in the rocking-chair.

"Wasn't he mad?" remarked Harold. "I never saw him so before. It was all that Tommy's doing, I'll bet."

"Go up to bed, both of you," said Mrs. Smithers.

"I won't for one," exclaimed Alice. "Will you, Harold?"

"Not much," replied the boy.

"Your father will punish you when he comes back."

"No he won't—he likes us too much, and we don't care for you, ma, when pa isn't here," said Alice.

Mrs. Smithers sighed again, but made no further effort to get the children to bed.

She knew they were their father's spoiled pets, and that it was useless, with her weak mind and undecided character, to attempt to control them in his absence.

So, while she sat silently crying to herself, Harold Stamford and Alice Regina got out the board and amused themselves with a game of checkers.

It was past midnight when Smithers returned, with rather an unsteady gait, and a glaziness about his eyes, which, taken in connection with the huskiness of his voice, led his wife to suppose that he had been drinking.

"This is a nice time to come home," she said, with more than her usual boldness.

"Very nicesh timesh," he answered, hiccoughing.

"Where have you been?"

"Looking for boysh they call Shoft Tommy—hic—that'sh where I've been."

"Did you find him?"

"No."

"Well, he's not come in," said Mrs. Smithers, "and it's my opinion that your harshness has driven him to some rash act."

"Run away, do you think?" exclaimed Smithers. "Oh, dear, no—hic—Tommy's too good a judge of when he'sh well off. Light my—hic—candlesh, and I'll go to bed."

Smithers was accommodated with a light, and in some mysterious manner retired without breaking his neck or setting the house on fire.

Harold and Alice followed their father's example, but Mrs. Smithers remained up till the small hours, waiting for Tommy to come back.

The fire in the stove went out, and the daylight peeped through the shades. Still the anxious mother watched.

When Tommy managed to escape from his father's anger, he ran to the back of Mr. Barker's house, where he knew he was sure of protection and shelter.

In the kitchen he found Charles Barker, a boy about his own age.

"Hello, Tommy," exclaimed Charley; "weren't those oysters bully?"

"I'm afraid to go home, through them," answered Tommy. "It seems as if I made another mistake. They weren't for the horse's supper at all. I wish I was a little smarter. Father will knock the life out of me when he catches me."

"Let him sleep over it," said Charley, "that's what I do when pop's mad with me. Sleep out all night, and let him go to business before you show up."

"Where can I stay?"

"In our house. You can go up in the carpenter's shop and sleep in one of the coffins. I'd give you half my bed, but father's so funny-tempered he might lick us both, if he found that I'd kept you out."

"That's so; and for want of a better roost, I'll do as you say."

"Come at once, for I hear pop upstairs, going on at mamma as he always does when he's in a bad temper."

Charley went into the yard, followed by his friend Tommy, on whom he thought he was conferring a great favor in allowing him to sleep in a coffin.

The snow was lying about in heaps, and the idea that it would be great fun to snowball somebody at once struck Charley.

"Say!" he exclaimed, "let's go down street and snowball Darky John."

"All right," replied Tommy.

"You fire at him, and I'll make a grab at his candy and divvy with you afterward."

"Just's you say."

Darky John was a good-tempered colored man who kept a candy store.

The boys were always playing him some trick or another, and, indeed, they made his life a misery and a burden to him.

As usual, Soft Tommy did not see the drift of his friend's proposal.

He ran the risk of getting all the blows, and Charley all the candy.

A few minutes' walk brought them to Darky John's. He was standing behind his counter, and was suddenly roused from the contemplation of a batch of red and blue-colored sugar pigs by the forcible contact of a snowball with his nose.

"Ki!" he said, "dat's too rough for dis chile to stand. Who fire dat ball?"

"Give him a couple more, and make him come out after you," whispered Charley.

Tommy threw two more balls, one of which raised a commotion among the bottles on a shelf, the other broke on John's ear, and its flaky particles streamed down his neck.

"Fore de lord, dat's too much. What I gwine to do now? If I cotch dat boy, I'll have to make him feel mighty sick!" exclaimed Darky John.

Catching sight of Tommy he ran out of the shop and chased him up the street.

Charley, meanwhile, entered the store and filled his pockets with candy.

CHAPTER III.

FUN ENDS IN TRAGEDY.

Fat and lazy, Nigger John did not succeed in overtaking Tommy, and at length gave up the chase, vowing vengeance upon him when he got him in his power.

The boys met at the corner of the street and divided the candy.

"Now, what's the next move?" said Charley. "Do you want to creep into your deal box?"

"I don't care," replied Tommy, with a shiver.

"You needn't be afraid. The old man's got no stiff up in the shop just now."

"It's horrid, though, to go among coffins, and your father does keep the dead bodies there sometimes."

"Of course he does. I've seen half a dozen at a time waiting to be boxed up, but they can't hurt you. They're harmless enough; it's nothing when you're used to it."

"Anyway," said Tommy, "it's better than going home to be licked."

"I'll bet yer," replied Charley.

While sucking their candy and talking they were approached by another boy.

"Hello, Charley!" exclaimed the newcomer; "was that you snowballing Nigger John?"

"I never give myself away, Swanny Marsh," replied Charley.

"He's awful mad. I wanted to sell him two pigeons for candy and he wouldn't deal."

"I'll trade with you."

"What'll you give?"

"My jackknife, a handful of candies and a dozen marbles."

"Can't do it," replied Swanny Marsh; "they're worth more."

"You can keep them," said Charley.

"I'll tell you what I'd like to do with them," continued the owner of the pigeons.

"What's that?"

"There's a lecture on to-night in Julian Hall. I went there and got a seat up in the gallery. Just under me there was a man with a bald head, and I dropped a marble down right on top of him. Jimanetti! you should have heard him howl and seen him jump!"

"Did they tumble you?"

"Like my bad luck, they did. A mean cuss saw me do it, and I was bounced. Now, I'll let you have the pigeons, if you'll throw them up through the door of the hall."

"What's the fun of that?"

"They'll fly all around and put the gas out, and we'll holler 'Fire!' like fury. It'll be all a lark to see the folks run for the door," replied Marsh.