\ \ §t r § \ k §\ \ \ \V\\“\\\\ “V \ ‘ \ ’ \\\‘\\\\ \\\\ \ \\ . a \ \ t __ . Xe -..._. I I x .. __. ~-_ _ 93%;:- > o ~___ " II IIHWIWIL at... .1; m [Illa h ‘i' v ; .J‘ffl‘i ill III II II] III III III III III III - III II II m H . KID; .\ nil III llllk\\ ‘, Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y , Post Office. Copyrighted 1893, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. Deeember 12. 1’893.» $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS. Price, NO' 8- Yeavl'o No. 98 WILLIAM STREET. NEW YORK. 5 cents- XXXHI' \ \\ v \\- . \. - t \ ‘ ‘ \ \ ‘ \ \ \1\ \ "n “'1 («VIM r' l ‘ “r1 \ TODDLES, THE THAMP, m CLOVER. A Story of Good-for-Nothing Jerry. 1 the Ex-Bootblack. BY J O PIERCE. CH AFTER I. D a I v m N 0 U 'r . JERRY knew there was trouble ahead the moment he entered the room. and saw the flushed face of Uncle Ben. the ngld lips or Aunt Sue, and Tom‘s surlfi scowl, A this dud not alarm Jerry. He had become accus- tomed to trouble. The streets of New York, in which he had to fight a. dain battle for bread, were kind In comparison mm the trio he had to meet when he TEE GAMIN STOOD BRACED FOR THE "'I'I‘ACK, DETERMINED NOT TO YIELD returned to the miserable room on West Broadway. - ‘ Jerry cahmy awaited the storm. It was not long WITHOUT A S-RUGGLL- 2 Good-for-Nothing Jerry. in coming. Uncle Ben,Annt Sueand Tom alike glared at him, and their deep-drawn respiration sent the odor of whisky out into the room very perceptibly—for, if the truth be told, all three had been drinking and were in r q iurrelsome H.00d. \thn Uncle Ben was ready to act as spokes- man he did so with severity. “ jerry,” he remarked, “ you‘ve got ter go!” “ Go whore!” Jerry stolir'lly replied. “ You can go ter Halifax, ef yer see fit, but you’re ter leave this shebung l” “ I kin sleep on the stairs.” , “ You won’t sleep on the stairs! You’re ter leave this house, at once an’ forever, an’never come back !” J erry’s eyes opened widely in surprise. “ That 80?" “ That’s so! Want me ter tell ye ag’i‘n? Fact is, we Won’t hev you around no longer; you don’t earn yer salt, an’ ain’t worth yer keep.” ' “ Everybody calls him Good-for-Nothing J er- ry!" declared Aunt Sue, in vixenish lament. “ He’s lazy as sin 1” aflirmed Tom. “ An’ ungrateful!” ‘ ." An’ deceitful!” “ An’ weak-minded!" “ An’, mebbe, a thief l" “ Aii’ utterly good for nothin’l” Une after another the amiable trio made their statemen :s in regard to Jerry, but he heard the whole with phlegmatic unconcern. EVery day for weeks, months and years he had heard the same complaints and had become ac- custorned to them. There had been a time when he was whipped nearly every night, but he had rebelled on the latest occasion, and with such marked success that the experiment had not been repeated. He made no answer to the last series of com- plaints, so Uncle Ben sharply added: “ Do you hear, vagabond l” “ I reckon, ” Jerry indnfl’erently replied. “ We’re oin’ ter cast you off. ’ “All rig t,” returned Jerry, without percep- ti ble evidence of interest. “ You must leave here ter-night.” “ All right.” “ An’ never come back.” “ All right.” " G.) at once!” “ All right.” Uncle hen had become enraged by this con- tinued indifference, and had stam ed his foot angrily on the floor, but if Jerry ha been amere machine he would not have answered with less evidence of concern. Nevertheless, it was an occasion and a crisis which would have moved any one of different temperament. Ever since he could remember he had been in charge of Uncle Ben and Aunt Sue, and at last he was Set adrift without being allowed any time for preparation. ‘ Really, this was a minor matter, as far as packing was concerned, for Jerry’s worldly mods could be carried with him: but he had no other place in view wherehe could find shelter, or money with which to pay for accommoda- tions. All this failed to move him, and he arose and went to a hole in the wall of the miserable room. Then he turned around with more expression on his face. v “ Whar’s my blackin’-brush an’ box!” he asked. “ Find ’em of you kinl” retorted Aunt Sue, with a mixture of trium h and venom. Tom burst into aloud augh. “ Shine ’em up?” he inquired, derisively. “ Whar’ve you put my things?" Jerry con- nue . “ In the fire!” H r! I “ In the fire!” There was a pause. Having made this an- nouncement, Aunt Sue put her arms akimbo and looked at the be with a sneering smile. Jerry was touched at st, and there was some- thing very much like consternation in his ex- pression. “ You don’t mean it l” he finally res ended. “I do!” declared Aunt Sue. “ 1: ye, Jerry Higgs, you’ve run the length 0’. yer rope. Fur many a day back you’ve had fair warnin’ what would happen of you kept on in yer ways, but the money you brnng us has been growin less an’ less; you’ve giot so lazy that I reckon you don’t brush off es from yer nose when they tickle. You’re ree’ll good fur nothin’. “ Aln t I worked as much as Uncle Ben an’ Tom i” asked Jerry. “ Ms work?” led Uncle Ben. “ Ma work? ti ' You’ve got so ye won’t wor —” I’ll hev ye understand that I don’t work. I’ma gentleman l” Never was a term more inappropriately ap- plied. Uncle Ben was ragged, dirty, nnshaven and unshorn, vicious and ignorant; and he Was a habitual drunkard. “ Nor I don‘t Work,” added 'i‘om. “ I do, an’ I want my brush an’ Lox.” “ You can’t licv ’cm,” returned Sue. “ 'VVhy? ’Cause they’re in ashes. You thankless reptyle, go out an’ starve el‘ you want ter; we won’t hev no lazy—bones ’round us. This is a bee-hive, an’ no drones can’t stay. Folks always said you was good for nothin’, but, as long as you brung us in a little money, we give you food an" shel- ter an’ a good home. Now We’re done with you, an’ you kin git out. As for‘the brush an’ box, they’re burnt, an’ you couldn’t hev them nohow. They was ours.” “ My money bought ’em.” “ Our money, you mean.” “ Who earned it?” “ Who give you feed an’ shelter?” Jerry did. not answer. For three years he had been the sole support of the miserable fam— ily, but he well know that it would be idle to argue with them. He went to the stove. There he saw a mass not yet wholly consumed, and he could trace the shape of his box and brush. Aunt Sue had told the truth; they were in the fire, and hopelessly mined. He turned toward the trio. They had always hated him, even while receiving their support at his hands, and he was not surprised to see them grinning and exulting over his situation, now; but he was stirred out of the sluggish sto— lidity which their long persecutions had made his second nature. To be set adrift did not then impress him as being anything more important than it would be to be sent for a loaf of bread, but to be de- Erived of his blacking-brush and box was a ardship of no small moment. “ You’ve done a mean thing!” Jerry declared, in a voice unstead with anger. , “Help yerself e ye can l” retort‘i Aunt Sue. “ I don t object ter leave, but why should you burn them i’” , “ Now you’ve got too lazy ter work. you don’t go away an’ use our personal property ter get your livin’.” It was useless for Jerry to remind them again that he had earned the money with which the brush and box were purchased; he did not waste breath in so doing. “ I’ll pay you back, of I ever get a chance 1” he asserted, warmly. H g” “ It was merlicious mischief, an’ on know it. You did it ter satisfy the unboun ed meanness that is in ye, an’ ter hit me when I’m down. But I don’t care; I won’t stay down, an’ I’ll pay you off, some time!” Tom Jones arose, doubled up his fists and squared away like a pugilist. “ No threats, here!” he blusterod. “ You hush up, or I’ll punch the nose off from yo!” A “Touch me, ef you dare!” Jerry was several years younger than Tom, and in height, several inches shorter, but he held the big vagabond in no awe. He flashed the retort at his enemy ’with spirit, but Tom still seemed inclined to fight with his mouth. “ No imperdence, or I‘ll do it l” he threatened. “ Come on i” Tom turned to his father. “ Say, shall 1 send fur a policeman?" he asked. “ No. but ye might bring in some whisky." re- sponded Uncle Ben, whose eyes were fast closing in the sleep of a drunkard. Tom had weakened, and, being no longer threatened, Jerry did not aspire to remain. Without another word he turned and walked out of the miserable, ill-kept room. He went with no worldly possession save the ragged gar- ments on his back, and without money, as home- less as the wandering dogs of the street. ‘ CHAPTER II. THE GOOD GENIUS or ATTIC TEN. JERRY HIGGs was the child of misfortune. If he had other parents, he wasnot aware of the fact; he had never known a relatiVe, near or distant. He had grown up in New York like the weeds of the field, as uncared-for, and sim- pl because Nature willed it so. is earliest recollections pointed to a house where he had lived with a family in great pov- e . They had died when he was very oung, an he had nomeansof knowing how hec anced to be with them. As their name had been Rogers, and his was Higgs, he had no reason to think that they had been relatives. They had r i never been unkind, as far as hf cou o‘ u 2 her, but they had l)c(’n totally indifferent c him—so much so that, as a mere infant, almost, he had occasionally crawled into a box in a neighboring alley, and slept there all night un- sought-l‘or by them. W hen they died, he fell into the hands of Uncle Ben Jonts and his wife. After that, the boy’s life was one of hardship and abuse. For several years he had supported the family with his brush. The greater part of his earn- ings went to buy whisky and beer; some was used to procure bread; but only the nierest trifle Went to the laborer himself. His reputation was not good. Fortunately, no one had ever charged him with crime or viciousways—though these things were not regarded with severity by the major- ity of the neighbors. Jerry’s spirit was crushed. Abuse, want, neglect and kindred evils had made him old be- .fore his time, in mental respects, and, while other children played. he passed his leisure hours in silence and stolid inactivity. The sobriquct of " Good-for-Nuthing Jerry” had been applied to him, and, once started, it clung to him like a urr. Those who thus branded him with words did not stop to ask what had made him as he was, or experiment to see if there was that within his nature where the seeds of other ways might find root. The football of fortune remained uncared for and without encouragement—except from one quarter. His only friends were as poor and humble as himself. Having left Uncle Ben’s premises, Jerry walked out to the street. He stood on the side- walk, his hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. His expression was stolid, but, never- theless, he was doing some thinking. Where should he go? He was homeless in New York! A million persona/were his neighbors, but he had no home in which to sleep, nor any table at which to eat. He noticed that not a lingeringray of sunlight was to be seen: night was near at hand. ‘ “ Mebbe I kin find a box ter sleep in l” hemut— tered, “ an’ 1 needn't eat anything afore noon.” He found Some comfort in this view of the future. He was studying the situation as calm- ly as thou h be had no personal interest. No feeling of omesickness, grief or doubt assailed him; he was as phlegmatic as when, having earned some money by shining boots, he surren- dered it to Uncle Ben without a protest. “ I’ll go an’ see Bess.” the boy finally added. He walked a few steps down the street and en- tered another house. It was tall, wide and deep, but in a condition of extreme old age and debility, as it were. J err went to the top floor. This was divided into a ong hall, with rooms on each side. Some person, in the past had gone the length of the hall and numbered each door with big, black, awkward figures. Jerry knocked at No.10. It was answered promptly,and a girl of about his own age appeared~a small, active, bright- eyed, in elligent-looking child. She was not pretty, ut hers was a very interestin face. “0 1 it’s you, Jerry 1” she exclaime ,her face growing even brighter. “ Yes, it’s me,” he agreed, apatheticall . “ Como right in! Father’s away,and I mreal glad to see you l” She hustled about with housew1fely solicitude, and with the agility of a child combined with the dignity of maturer years, and soon had him seated. Evidently she was a precocious child, and, also, circumstances had been a severe teacher for her. The room bore evidences of extreme pov- erty, but was neat to an extreme. The latter fact was due wholly to her, for she and her fa- ther were its only occupants. “ Business good to-day’l” Bess asked, briskly. “ Toler’ble.” “ The high-toned folks do have to get a shine.” “Ye .” “ You and I don’t need any.” Jerry looked down at his bare feet. “ They’re ’bout black enough ter be improved by a shine,” he observed, dubiously. “ I forgot ter wash ’em afore I came, Bess." “ Never mind, Jerry; you’ll be in another business, some day, and wear patent-leathers.” “ Mebbe. I’ve gait Uncle Ben’s l” “ You’ve what? His statement was phlegmatic; her question was one of surprise. “ I’ve left thar.” “ Left there—for good?” “ Yes.” “ What are you going to do nowl” “ Dunno.” “ I don’t understtind.” “ I’ve got all done at Uncle Ben’s, au’ ain’t go- in’ there no more.” Lt \‘V by nnt?” “ Got tired of ’em.” “ And you’re going to leave?’ “ Yes.” “ But you’re going to keep on shining shoes?” “Dunno!” “Jerry, you are not dealing squarely with me; you don’t look at me, but at the floor. That isn’t right; I want you to speak right out!” Her manner was one of mingled rv-pmuf and authority. It was not the first time she had ad- dressed him thus. IIcr nature differed greatl y from his. lie was apathetic: she was bright, hopeful and re