DOODLES

(Page 49) HE WAS NEVER LONELY WHEN HE COULD SING

CHAPTER I THE BARGAIN

Fragments of the auctioneer’s entreaties floated through the open doorway of the bird shop and, above the rattle and roar of the street, clacked in Blue’s ears.

“Ladies and gentlemens ... beautiful lark ... emperor of singers ... not swell to look at, but.... Only twenty cents!—Twenty-two am I offered? ... shame, ladies and gentlemens!” And so on, in tones of pleading and mild complaint.

Blue, meanwhile, studied the placarded window, where all manner of feathered stock, “slightly damaged, but every bird a bargain,” was announced to be sold to the highest bidder.

“Lovely starling ... ladies and gentlemens,... how much?” the persuasive voice skipped on, but was rudely interrupted by another.

“Huntin’ fer bargains?” A boy of Blue’s own size nudged him in the back. “Why don’t yer go in ’n’ git one fer Doodles? ’T ’u’d keep him f’m bein’ down ’n’ dumpy. My aunt—”

“‘Down ’n’ dumpy’—Doodles!” Blue’s rallying laugh drowned the “ladies and gentlemens” drifting through the doorway. “Huh,” he chuckled, “guess yer don’t know Doodles!”

“Ain’t he, now? S’posed all sick folks was. My aunt she—”

“Doodles dumpy!” The boy’s shoulders shook again. “Why, if there was nothin’ left in the whole world but just barbers’ poles, Doodles ’u’d sure make friends with the stripes. And he’d have the best time ever—bet you he would!” Blue’s hard little face grew suddenly tender, as he thought of the brother whose life was all pain and all joy.

The auction was over. The crowd poured out into the noisy street. Here and there a bird-cage told that a lame canary, a blind bobolink, or some other “damaged” fluff of feathers had changed owners.

One of the purchasers, a small, hatless girl, clad in scowls and a lace-collared coat, halted when she saw Blue, and began recklessly to swing her cage.

“Here, you Mame Sweeney!” the boy cried, seizing the child’s arm; “don’t yer see you’re scarin’ that bird ’most to death?”

“Le’ go!” she snapped. “’T ain’t yours!” She wrenched herself free, and defiantly thrashed the cage about her knees.

“Stop it!” The girl found her hand gripped in a vise of muscles.

“Le’ me be!” she screamed. “Don’t care if I do scare him! Horrid old thing!”

A little group of newsboys circled about them, eager for a closer view of the cause of the wrangle.

The ragged gray bird, panting on the floor of his prison, did not invite favor. There was a subdued chorus of grunts and ejaculations. Then disapproval burst into bantering speech.

“Ain’t he a dood!”—“Mame, wha’ ’d yer pay fer th’ beaut?”—“Whin ’ll he give a concert?”—“Sure, if he sings like he looks, he’ll bate th’ show!”

The girl frowned on the teasing lads.

“How could I see him in all that jam!” she pouted. “The man said he was swell, and could sing like everything. Anyhow, I got him for seventeen cents!”

“Swell!” Blue let go a whistle. Yet he gazed pityingly at the poor, draggled thing in the cage.

“You could n’t to know nothin’ ’bout him the while he’s got fraids,” apologized Joseph Sitnitsky. “He be a awful stylish kind.” Joseph’s uncle was half-proprietor of the bird shop.

As if encouraged by this friendly comment, the bird tentatively cast an eye upward, and then hopped to his perch. But if he had hoped by this act to win kindlier words, the effort failed. Scorn swept the circle. The Bargain was disgracefully dirty, his left wing hung limp at his side, his bill was nicked, and his tail was reduced to three ragged feathers.

“Aw, he’s worser’n a muddy sparrer! Out him, Marne, an’ done with it!”

“You could to have nice feelings over him, und maybe sometime he sings,” mildly remonstrated the loyal nephew of Abraham Sitnitsky.

But nobody heeded the plaintive voice, and the girl, chagrined at the loss of her money and exasperated by the jeers of the boys, seemed about to follow Pete’s dismal advice, when Blue Stickney interposed.

“I’ll give yer a quarter for him!”

Staying her reckless hand, Mame stared.

“Honest?” she scowled.

The boy was already counting out the sum from his meager handful of small coins, and in a moment the gray bird had again changed owners.

As Blue started up the steep stairs to the top floor of The Flatiron, he wished it had been possible to give his purchase a bath before revealing it to the keen eyes of Doodles; but then the little brother would have had just so much less of happy ministration for his pet. For, of course, the bird would belong to Doodles. There had never been any other thought of it in Blue’s mind.

Down the dim stairway floated a strain of melody, and it told the boy agreeable news,—that his mother had come home and was getting dinner, that things had gone well at the big shop where she worked, and that the little brother was not suffering from the “bad spell” which had threatened in the morning. Mrs. Stickney rarely sang when Doodles was in unusual pain, and if she did it was not in so brisk a voice.

The song grew clearer, the words came distinctly now.

Blue opened the kitchen door, and as he stepped from the dusky hallway to the sunlit room, a sudden mellow trill struck into the song.

This tuneful greeting quite caught away the boy’s remembrance of the little speech of presentation with which he had thought to amuse his brother, and Doodles, his eyes big with wonder and delight, stretched out both hands towards the unkempt singer.

“O—h! is he ours?” he cried.

Blue nodded.

“To keep forever?”

Another nod.

“Isn’t he a darling!” breathed the little occupant of the pillowed chair, when the battered cage was placed beside him. He threw one arm around the small prison, and leaned lovingly over it.

The bird cocked an eye upward, and ventured another trill.

“He’s just beautiful!” piped Doodles in ecstasy.

After that who could dare to make unflattering remarks about the singer? Certainly not Doodles’s mother, so with a happy light on her face she continued her work of preparing dinner.

In The Flatiron news flew fast. Even before Mrs. Stickney’s potatoes had fried brown, up the stairs puffed Granny O’Donnell on her rheumatic old legs, bringing the deserted home of her long-mourned-for Canary Dick, who had flown away from Cherry Street six years ago.

With a joyful whiff the Bargain took possession of his roomier quarters, and, despite his drooping wing, pranced about on the perches.

“See how happy he is!” laughed Doodles, clapping his little thin hands. “He is saying thank-you!”

Then, perhaps because his new master had suggested the returning of thanks, the slim gray bird, with a little captivating prelude, broke into a torrent of melody such as Canary Dick with his limited powers had never dreamed of.

“Shure, an’ he must ’a’ coome sthraight f’m hiven!” gasped Granny O’Donnell, as the last note dropped into silence.

Blue stood, big-eyed, in the pantry doorway, arrested in his hunt for a suitable bathtub for the singer; the mother quite forgot her scorching potatoes; and Doodles himself, with both arms around the cage, crooned words of endearment in the ears of the little songster.

Granny O’Donnell’s astonishing reports of Blue’s twenty-five-cent purchase spread through the big tenement house, until old and young tripped or hobbled up to the top floor to see the surprising handful of feathers that could “sing loike a blissid a-angil.” A long bath and a still longer toilet in the sun brought the ragged Bargain to something like sleekness, and he began the promise of making good his little master’s first praise. On rainy days, when shut-in neighbors were apt to be neighborly and numerous, the gray bird sometimes sulked on the end of his perch and refused to sing, possibly too strongly reminded of his dismal surroundings in the bird shop. But as soon as the sunshine returned he would promptly forget the past and graciously display his wonderful gift to all that came.

CHAPTER II CARUSO

A weighty problem was puzzling the Stickney family. What should be the gray bird’s name? Doodles was growing nervous under the reiterated question, “What yer goin’ to call him?” Every visitor had a name to offer, but the matter was not of easy disposal.

“I know Mis’ Homan thinks I ought to call him Cherry,” observed the little owner plaintively; “but how can I! He isn’t one. And there’s Granny! Do you s’pose she’ll feel awful bad if I don’t name him Dicky? If ’twasn’t for Dicky Fyt—but ’tis! And his mother callin’ and callin’ him all day long! How’d anybody know which she meant?”

“Huh,” snorted Blue, “guess we shan’t name him after that kid—not much!”

“And now Mis’ George,” Doodles resumed, “I’m afraid she’s mad. She was in here with the baby, this afternoon, and she tried to make me promise to call him Evangeline, after her. I kep’ tellin’ her he wasn’t a girl; but she didn’t seem to think that made any difference. I s’pose it’s a pretty name; but you wouldn’t want it, would you, for him?” The tone was anxious.

“Gracious, no!” was the emphatic answer. “Name him after that George squaller!” Blue chuckled with the thought.

Doodles laughed a little in sympathy, and surveyed his brother with admiration. Blue was always so satisfying.

At breakfast, next morning, the important question was again taken up.

“Dear me!” complained the mother, “I hope that bird will get a name pretty soon; we can’t seem to talk of anything else.”

Blue laughed confidently. “He’ll have one before night, sure! I’m goin’ to think of somethin’ fine to-day.”

“Goin’—somethin’!” repeated Mrs. Stickney with a patient sigh. “What would your grandfather say to hear that! With him keeping the district school for two years before he was married, I tell you, we children had to stand round! No cutting words short where he was!”

“Glad I wasn’t there!” grinned Blue.

“You’d have been a good deal better off than you are now,” his mother asserted. “If I didn’t have to work in the shop, I believe I’d keep you home from school, and teach you myself, till you could talk decently.”

“You ought to hear the other boys,” laughed Blue.

“That’s what’s the trouble. Doodles is catching it from you, and doesn’t speak nearly as well as he used to. I wish you had better companions.” She drew a long, regretful breath. “Well, do try, both of you, to remember your i-n-g’s.”

“Oh! what dif’ does it make?” returned Blue easily.

“Child! dif’!—There’s the whistle!”

Correct speech was quite forgotten, as Mrs. Stickney hurried off to the big silver shop, leaving the boys to finish their breakfast in leisure. They did not at once go back to the question they had been discussing; but while the elder brother was washing the dishes Doodles started it again.

“What made you be so sure Birdie’d have a name by night?” the small boy queried.

“Oh, I do’ know!” Blue smiled, pausing to pour a dipper of hot water over the soapy cups and plates.

“Seems sometimes’s if he never would,” Doodles put in with a wee sigh.

“Oh, I haven’t half tried yet!” resumed the other. “Don’t you worry one mite, old feller! Ther’ ’s lots o’ dandy names, if I could only think of ’em, and I’m goin’—going to do my honor best to-day, sure!”

Doodles laughed softly, to accompany his brother’s louder chuckle, and rested in the promise, for, as he had reason to know, Blue’s “honor best” was apt to be very good, indeed; and when he was left alone he and the gray bird had a long confidential talk. It was satisfactory, too, for although words were only on one side Doodles would have told you that the bird surely understood all that was said to him. Didn’t he cock his little head, and make soft, musical replies! And when he was assured that he would soon have a name of his very own, “just like other folks,” didn’t he actually dash off a brand-new song that left his hearer gasping with delight!

Yet it was not Blue that first arrived with the name.

Some of the top-floor lodgers had to pass the door of the Stickney kitchen on their way up and down stairs. Among them was a recent comer to whom Doodles had taken a strong liking,—a young girl, small, red-cheeked, and curly-haired, who had smiled a prompt answer to his first friendly “Hello!” The next day she had stepped inside, to give him a flower from the little bunch she carried, and then had lingered a moment to hear the gray bird sing. The boy had quickly learned her step, because of a slight lameness, and he came to watch for her as soon as the noon whistles blew, and was disappointed when she went elsewhere for dinner. He felt that he had a kind of fellowship with her on account of her defect, and he longed really to know her. Today he was listening for her halting footfall even before she had had time to reach The Flatiron. He had not learned where she worked; but he conjectured that it must be either at the knitting mill or the box factory. His mother was full ten minutes in walking down from the silver shop, and the girl usually

reached home at least five minutes earlier. If she shouldn’t come at all this noon! He wanted to tell her that his pet was really going to have a name, for hadn’t Blue said so! There she was now! Nearer and nearer drew the uneven steps. Doodles waited excitedly for the first glimpse of her dark blue dress.

“Hello!” he called. “Please, will you—” She was coming, even before the invitation was given!

“What is it, little sweetheart?” Dimples were playing about the ruddy lips.

“I wanted to tell you that my bird is going to have a name—to-day!”

“Of course, he is! I’ve brought it!”

“You?”

“Yes, I found it right on the street.”

“Oh!—how?—what?” Doodles bent forward in his eagerness.

“I saw it on the billboards down by the theater; it’s the name of a great singer,—Caruso.”

The child brought his little hands together with a soft breath of delight. “Isn’t that beautiful!—Caruso! I’ve been wishin’ it would sound like music—and it does!”

“I thought you’d like it,” she nodded.

“It is lovely! Won’t Blue be glad! Oh, Birdie dear, you’ve got a name! you’ve got a name!” leaning over the cage, which stood always within his reach. “Caruso—Caruso! Do you like it, dear?”

The gray bird stopped pruning his feathers, glanced archly at his little master, and with a few joyous whistles broke into one of his captivating songs.

“He is a wonderful singer,” praised the girl. “I’ve been wishing I could go to hear Caruso; I’ll have to come and hear this one instead.”

“Yes, do come—any time!” urged Doodles. “But why don’t you go and hear the other, if you want to?”

The girl laughed. “It costs money, sweetheart.” Her blue eyes grew wistful. “Everything nice costs money.” She turned to go.

“I’m ever and ever so much obliged to you for the name,” Doodles hastened to say. “I don’t know yours,” he suggested.

She had come back, and was looking down at him, a half-smile on her pretty lips.

“No, you don’t, do you!” she replied gayly.

“I THOUGHT YOU WOULD LIKE IT”

“It is Dorothy”—a shadow passed over the bright face—“Rose.”

“What a pretty name!” chirped Doodles. “I’m so glad you told me.”

“You can call me Dolly, if you like; some folks do. Grandpa always does—did,” she corrected.

“Oh, I’d love to!” began the child; but the girl was already in the hall, and she did not look back.

At the instant Blue dashed up the stairs with a clatter.

“I’ve got the dandiest name for you!” he burst out.

“Oh!” cried Doodles.

“You never could guess!” grinned his brother.

“Caruso!” piped the small boy with sudden intuition.

“How’n the world—” Blue’s face fell in amazement.

Doodles clapped his hands gleefully. “You thought I couldn’t guess, and he’s got it already!”

Blue laughed in sheer sympathy with his brother’s joy.

“But how?” he queried.

“Dolly brought it—she” (pointing towards the girl’s door)—“Dolly Rose.”

Mrs. Stickney came just in time to hear the story of the new name, and the dinner hour was full of unusual chatter and mirth.

CHAPTER III THE ROBBERY ON THE TOP FLOOR

After his mother had returned to the factory, and his brother to school, Doodles found himself somewhat weary from the small excitement, and shortly he fell asleep.

The kitchen was very still. Stairway and hall were empty; the occupants of the top floor worked outside, and would not be home until six o’clock. Only dull sounds came from the stories below. Even Caruso drowsed on his perch. Moments, hours, were ticked off by the little brown clock on the shelf; yet Doodles did not awake.

At last somebody crept stealthily up the steep stairs. A girl in a lace-collared coat peered round the comer of the doorway, and as she saw the sleeping boy her beady eyes gleamed with triumph. Noiselessly she crossed the room, and reached out a hand to snatch the bird cage; but her quick movement roused the little prisoner, and he began to flutter wildly. For an instant the girl hesitated, glancing at Doodles, and the lad came to himself with a sharp cry.

Quickly realizing that his pet was in danger, he grasped the cage as she seized it, clinging to it manfully; but with brutal force she wrested his frail fingers from their hold, and put herself and her booty beyond his reach.

“I’ll learn ye!” she snarled. “It’s my bird—’t ain’t yours! There’s yer old money!” She flung a quarter on the table. It rolled away, and off to the floor; but she did not stop to pick it up. ‘Blue Stick’ knew I was only in fun when I let him take it, and he’d oughter brought it right back; everybody says so. Ye kin tell him he needn’t sneak round tryin’ ter git th’ bird again, fer he can’t have it!”

She was disappearing in the doorway before the dazed boy burst into speech.

“Come back! come back!” he shrieked. “It’s mine! Bring it back! oh, bring it back!”

But his only answer was a little flouting laugh and the mad whir of wings against the wires.

“Oh, Birdie! Birdie!” piteously called the child, the familiar name coming to his lips in place of the new one, and as the fleeing footsteps on the stairs were lost he dropped back among his pillows with a great sob. “Dear Birdie!” he moaned, “my precious Birdie!”

In that moment despair seized his soul. If only he could have pursued to save his pet! But, ah! his feet had forgotten how to walk, and all at once realizing his utter helplessness he put his hands to his face and shed the first bitter tears of his joyous life.

Then, with a suddenness that caught away his breath, came the pain,—the ugly pain which for weeks had held itself so far off that he had almost forgotten how cruel it could be, and now he groaned with the torture of it.

So his brother found him, white and sobbing.

“What’s up, kiddie?” Blue knelt beside him, and took the cold little hands in his own. “Tell me, old feller! Is’t the big pain?”

The child nodded. For a moment he could do no more. Anguish held the words back.

“Birdie’s—gone!” he finally sobbed out.

“Gone?” Blue stared around. “Where is he?”

“She took him!—the girl!”

“The girl? That Dolly—”

“No, no!—a little—girl!—She left some money—there!” He pointed feebly in the direction of the coin.

A fierce light flamed in Blue’s puzzled face. “Did she have on a big lace collar?”

“Yes.”

“Marne Sweeney!—confounded little cuss!”

Doodles gazed at him with horrified eyes.

“Don’t care!—she is!—makin’ you feel like this! Tell me about it, kiddie! Or no, I’ll get some medicine first.”