CHAPTER I “AN IMP OF WICKEDNESS”

It was seven o’clock on a shining spring morning, and Warren Street was receiving its daily bath. All up and down its elm-shaded length, men and women and girls and boys were splashing and dashing and scrubbing and rubbing; and even the sun seemed willing to help, for he peered through the branches and winked and blinked as if to say, “You wash the steps and the pavements, and I’ll dry them.”

In front of No. 27 stood a personage whom the owner of the house No. 27 variously characterized as a “Looby,” a “Good-for-nothing,” a “Hobbledehoy,” and an “Imp of Wickedness.” She is the heroine of this story. Betty McGuire was a lanky girl in her fourteenth year. Her thin face was sprinkled with freckles, and her little nose was neither Greek nor Roman; but her merry deep-blue eyes and her glossy black curls suggested the best type of Irish beauty. For Betty was of Irish descent, though American by birth and by several years of knocking about in American boarding-houses.

Not that Miss Betty boarded—oh, dear, no! She had been waitress, scullery-maid, and maid of all work; and once, for three blessed weeks, she had been a lady’s-maid; and those weeks were the one bright chapter in her poor little career. For Miss Christabel had been so beautiful, and so sweet and gentle; more than all, she had been kind to Betty, and that had been the child’s only experience with that virtue.

But Miss Christabel was only as a dream now, and Betty’s life in Mrs. Tucker’s boarding-house was a hard and cold reality.

It wasn’t the work only,—she could have stood that,—but it was the injustice. It did seem that, no matter how hard she tried, she never could convince the irascible landlady of her good intentions. For Betty was a conscientious little girl, and truly tried to do right; only, the right bobbed about so, she was never sure just where to find it. Indeed, from Mrs. Tucker’s point of view, the right seemed to be always the thing Betty left undone. As she stood in front of No. 27, she presented a comical picture.

Dressed in a shirt-waist which had seen brighter days, and a short and skimpy old black skirt, she wore at her belt a huge bunch of daisies, and her battered and torn straw hat was loaded with the same inexpensive blossoms. Around her neck and tied under her chin in a great bow was a strip of Turkey-red calico, which Ellen the cook had given her.

Betty’s love of bright colors amounted almost to a passion; and as, in consequence, Mrs. Tucker prescribed only dull and dark clothes, the child was obliged to choose with great caution the times and seasons when she might fling her colors to the breeze, and this strip of Turkey red was among her most cherished possessions. It had been originally intended to enliven Ellen’s collection of carpet-rags; but Betty had shown such an overwhelming desire for its possession that the good-natured cook had presented it to her; and ever since it had been a necktie, a sash, or a hat-band, as occasion required, but was always so adjusted that it could be instantly whisked off when the voice of Mrs. Tucker was heard in the land.

So this morning it was a necktie, and imparted an air of great dignity to its wearer, while she grasped firmly in her bony hands the nozzle of a garden hose, which rested its slimy, snaky black length across the pavement.

A spray of water sparkled through the air, and bit the dust in the middle of the road.

Then Pete, the ashman, came along, and with a grin surveyed the red-bowed maiden.

“Hi, Betty, what yer doin’?”

“I should think you could see. I’m playin’ the pianny in me boodore.”

“Funny, ain’t yer? Where’s Mike?”

“Sick. Have you got anything for me?”

“No, Betty; the ash-barrel business ain’t what it was. I don’t pick up no satin sashes, nor yet no spangled over-skirts—in fact, nothin’ as ladies like yerself would care for.”

“All right, Pete; but keep a good watch out, all the same. I’d like a new feather most exceedin’, me red one havin’ been croolly put in the fire by me friend Mrs. Tucker.”

“Now, that’s a real shame, Betty, and I’ll thry fer to hunt ye another, sure I will.”

Pete departed, whistling, and Betty moved along and began on a fresh section of dust. Her next interlocutor was Jack, the lame newsboy, who hailed her from across the street:

“Hello, Imp! what are you up to now? Out for dust?”

“Oh, only amusin’ meself. Come on over.”

“ ’Fraid you’ll shrink my new clo’es for me.”

“No, I won’t, honor bright! Come on.”

“Gutter seats all engaged?”

“No; take one. Now see me hit the bird on that hydrant.”

“Smarty! Let me try it. There! he’s gone. Let’s try it on a dog; here’s Bumps.”

“No; you sha’n’t tease Bumps. Give me the hose; I must get the dust laid before Mrs. Tucker comes, or she’ll blow me sky-high.”

“Yes; I’ll give it to you in a minute; but here comes Van Court’s trap, with all the swell dudes in it. Must be a picnic as brings ’em out so early. I’m going to see how near I can come to ’em and miss ’em.”

“Oh, Jack, don’t! It’ll spoil the young ladies’ dresses if a drop of water touches ’em. Give me that hose!” And Betty snatched at it; but, with the proverbial viciousness of inanimate things, the hose gave a squirm, and a great stream of water was divided impartially among the surprised occupants of the carriage. The young man who was driving reined up his horses with a jerk, threw the lines to his companion, and sprang to the ground, confronting the two terrified children. He glared at them both, and then deciding that the inoffensive-looking cripple could not be the culprit, he turned to the more daring-looking Betty.

“What did you do that for, you minx? How dare you play your disgraceful pranks on a party of ladies and gentlemen? Who are you?”

“Please, sir,” broke in Lame Jack, “the Imp didn’t do it; it was my fault.”

“The ‘Imp’! A fine name, truly! Don’t attempt to shield her, boy; her guilt speaks for itself in her face.”

For, naturally, poor Betty was blushing scarlet, and although she tried to speak, the irate gentleman gave her no chance.

“Be off, lad, and sell your papers. I’ll attend to this. Now, Imp, where do you belong?”

“Go on, Jack, do,” implored Betty; for the lame boy’s face showed an eagerness to do battle for his friend, and she feared that if the gentleman’s wrath should be transferred to Jack it would go hard with him. So, feeling more than ever his uselessness, Jack hobbled away.

Then Betty turned to her accuser.

“It was an accident, sir; I was trying not to hit the carriage, but the hose twisted about so, I couldn’t handle it.”

Betty’s earnest face might have convinced even a more skeptical judge; but the daisies nodding above it, and the audacious red bow below it, gave the child an air of frivolity that argued ill for her cause.

“A likely story! Popinjay! Where do you live? Who is your father?”

“Oh, sir, I haven’t any father, or mother, neither. I’m Mrs. Tucker’s kitchen girl; and please, please don’t tell her about it. She couldn’t help you any, and she’d ’most kill me.”

This was philosophy; but the enraged Mr. Van Court wasn’t asking for philosophy. He strode up the steps and rang Mrs. Tucker’s door-bell with decision and energy.

Meantime the two besprinkled ladies had climbed down from the trap and presented themselves also at the door; and when Mrs. Tucker came, she beheld three of “the quality” apparently very anxious to enter her house.

Now, Mrs. Tucker was cut out for a successful boarding-house keeper by every implication of her being. Her features, her person, and her dress all gave the impression of economy and even of a scant table. And, although an early hour for such an errand, her businesslike intuitions told her that these people had heard of the justly famed excellence of her house and table, and were seeking accommodations.

“THE HOSE GAVE A SQUIRM, AND A GREAT STREAM OF WATER WAS DIVIDED IMPARTIALLY AMONG THE OCCUPANTS OF THE CARRIAGE.”

So it was with a beaming smile of hope that she invited them in—a smile, however, which turned to a stare of amazement as she saw the ladies’ wet dresses, and changed again to a thunder-cloud frown as the terrified Betty was pushed into prominence by Mr. Van Court.

“I ask, madam,” he said, “why this overdressed factotum of yours should be allowed to drench innocent passers-by?”

His satire had expended itself, and he stood glaring at Betty, too angry for further words.

Miss Van Court took up the thread of the complaint, saying in a drawling voice, “My new barège is spoiled.” In truth it was, and her bonnet also. The other lady interrupted her, saying concisely: “What we want is to come in and dry our clothing by your fire, if we may. Richard, you will lose your train if you tarry longer. Go to the station, and Thomas may call for us on his return. You see, madam, we were taking my brother to the cars, when we were suddenly deluged by a stream of water from the garden hose. We cannot go farther in this state, so we ask assistance—though I fear my parasol is beyond all help.”

She looked regretfully at the soaking mass of white chiffon and silk, and the utter ruin of the lovely sunshade went straight to Betty’s beauty-loving heart.

“Oh, miss,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “the purty parrysol!” And her big blue eyes filled with tears at the bedraggled wreck.

Mrs. Tucker urged the ladies to come in, at the same time snatching at Betty’s arm with such a vicious jerk that Mr. Van Court felt he had secured for the “Popinjay” a punishment to fit her crime, as he hurried away to his train.

“You imp of wickedness, what have you been doing now?” murmured Mrs. Tucker, in a tone no less menacing because of its low pitch; “and what do you mean by wearing this disgusting trumpery? You are a disgrace to my house!”

She twitched off poor Betty’s red necktie, which the child had forgotten, and, pushing her, added:

“Go at once to the cellar and split wood. Stay there until I call you, and mind you are not idle a moment!”

Then Mrs. Tucker turned to the ladies a countenance meant to show respectful regret and sympathy.

“I am so sorry that you should have suffered through the vile pranks of that imp of wickedness,” she said, as she lighted a wood fire which was laid ready in the drawing-room; “she makes my life a torment.”

“Ah, well,” said the younger Miss Van Court, who had been impressed by Betty’s tearful eyes, “perhaps it was an accident; don’t be too hard on her.”

Mrs. Tucker took the cue. “Yes, ma’am; as you say, an accident; but what a pity, ma’am! Pray let me help dry your feathers.”

The blazing fire did quick and efficacious work, and when the trap returned, the damaged clothing was almost entirely restored, only the parasol being permanently injured.

With renewed apologies and regrets, Mrs. Tucker bowed her guests out, and then went down-stairs in search of the luckless Imp.

CHAPTER II IN THE CELLAR

In obedience to Mrs. Tucker’s order, Betty started for the cellar, and as she went down the stairs she felt that her cup of woe was full indeed. To be brought in from her beloved fresh air and sunshine, and set to work in the dark, damp cellar, was bad enough, but far worse was the loss of her beautiful Turkey-red calico. And, too, Betty had had no breakfast that morning, and hunger does not add to the bravery of a little girl fourteen years old.

As she passed the kitchen door a goodly smell came out invitingly; but she dared not stop there, for Mrs. Tucker would expect the pile of split sticks to measure fairly with the time which might elapse before her appearance.

So Betty went on down-cellar, picked up the ax, and attacked a log of wood. She knew that Mrs. Tucker, in the parlor above, could hear her strokes, and that consequently they must occur in rapid succession.

“It’s starvin’ I am!” she said to herself. “Neither bite nor sup this blessed mornin’, an’ likely nothin’ till noon—an’ me a-tryin’ most especial this week to be good. But the more I tries, the more things happens from outside to pervent. I s’pose it’s just my luck. Some folks is born to bad luck, and what luck comes we has to take. But I wish I had a home. Seems to me I wouldn’t mind havin’ bad luck if I had a pretty home to have it in. Hallo, Jack! come on down.”

The crippled newsboy had appeared at the cellar window, and, in response to Betty’s invitation, Jack swung himself and his crutch inside, with an agility that would have done credit to a boy who had full use of his legs.

“What’s up, Betty? Where’s the old lady?”

“In the parlor, passin’ the time of day wid the Miss Van Courts. Say, Jack, did you ever have a home?”

“A home? Naw—nothin’ but the hospital, and I runned away from that.”

“Don’t you wish you did have a home?”

“Yep; but I’d ruther have money. If yer have money, yer can buy a home.”

“Oh, I never had any money. I’ve just worked for clo’es and board. Of course, while you’re wishin’, you might as well wish for money. But I’d rather have schoolin’. I’d just love to go to school, an’ learn ‘I am, thou art, he is.’ That’s what Ethel Green learns; and she learns beautiful map-questions and figgers, too.”

“Stop yer choppin’ a minute, Betty; I can’t hear what yer say.”

“I can’t stop. She’s up above, listenin’.”

“What a nipper she is! Will yer ketch it fer the hosin’ performance, Bet?”

“S’pose so.”

“It’s a shame, ’cos that was my fault. Say, Betty, I’m awful sorry I got yer in trouble.”

“Oh, it doesn’t make any difference. If she wasn’t ragin’ about this, it’d be somethin’ else. She’s gen’rally mad at somethin’. Oh, jiminy, Jack, she’s comin’! You won’t have time to get out. Hide behind the ice-box.”

Jack scrambled behind the big refrigerator, the noise of his clattering crutch drowned by the vigorous blows of Betty’s ax.

“You good-for-nothing looby!” began the landlady. “You have brought disgrace and reproach upon my house; you have spoiled the ladies’ fine gowns, and you deserve to be turned into the street. After all I’ve done for you, you have no sense of gratitude! After all I’ve taught you, you have no sense of decorum, but stand out in front of my house, tricked out like an organ-grinder’s monkey, and insult passers-by. Lay down that ax and look at me! What can you say for yourself?”

Betty dropped the ax and looked at Mrs. Tucker. Impressed by the lady’s extreme rage, the thought struck her that she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and she resolved on a bold stroke.

“I’m sorry,” she said,—“awful sorry; but truly, ma’am, it was an accident. But please, ma’am, if you’ll give me back me red necktie, I’ll not wear it out o’ doors again.”

“Give it back to you!” fairly screamed Mrs. Tucker. “I’ll throw it in the fire; indeed you won’t wear it out of doors again. Now, as part of your punishment, you may stay down here and split wood all the morning.”

“But, Mrs. Tucker, I ain’t had breakfast.”

“And you don’t deserve any. But there’s some cold tea in the pantry; you may have that and a slice of bread. You’d better not dawdle over it, for all those sticks must be split and neatly piled up by the time Ellen calls you to pare the vegetables.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Betty, meekly; and Mrs. Tucker walked away, feeling doubtful whether she had punished her prisoner enough, and resolving that the careless girl should pay for her fault in some other way.

Betty chopped away sullenly, and Jack came out of his hiding-place and offered sympathy.

“She’s a mean old thing; but ain’t yer goin’ to eat nothin’, Betty?”

“No; I don’t want her food. I hate her!”

“Say, Betty,”—and Jack’s kind voice was very comforting,—“I’ve got a nickel, and if yer say so, I’ll skip down to Gruber’s and buy you a hot muffin and a sausage, ’cos it was truly my fault that yer got trapped. Will yer eat ’em, hey?”

“Yes, indeedy! You’re awful good, Jack.”

The lame boy hobbled off on his errand, and Betty whacked away at her task until he returned. Then she dropped her ax, and sat down to enjoy the hot muffin and sausage.

“My, but it’s good, Jack! But aren’t you hungry yourself?”

“N-no—not to say hungry. I had some breakfast. But that’s tiptop, ain’t it?”

“It’s prime; but I won’t eat any more unless you take some, too. Here”; and Betty broke off a generous bit and gave it to him, and the two children sat nibbling away together.

“Let’s pretend, Jack,” said Betty; “that’ll make it last longer, and be more fun, besides. Let’s pretend we’re quality, and you’ve come to dine with me. I’m a grand lady with heaps of book-learnin’, and a red silk dress trimmed with blue bugles, and I live in a home. You’re a hero who was lamed in the battle of Waterloo—”

“But I couldn’t be, Betty. That battle was years ago.”

“Oh, was it? Well, never mind; any old battle will do. Now pretend. Good evenin’, Mr. Riley; it’s pleased to see you I am—thou art—he is.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, that’s grammar, Jack. The quality always talks grammar. It’s all the grammar I know. But I know one bit of history. I heard Ethel Green studying it out of a book. She said it over and over, and I learned it while I was dusting her room.”

“What is it?”

“Well, if you’ll pretend with me, I’ll say it. The quality brings in history as they talks.”

“All right. Good evenin’, Miss McGuire. You’re lookin’ gorgeous to-night.”

“Yes; me new gown is a becomin’ color, though I say it as shouldn’t. Will you have some of this strawberry ice-cream? It’s the best I’ve ate since the crescent waved over the Church of St. Sophia and the Byzantine Empire fell forever.”

“Whew! Is that your history, Bet?”

“Yes; but don’t notice it. Just talk away. You’re no good at all at pretendin’. Why, I can pretend this cellar is a beautiful parlor, or a flower-garden, or a school-room. I like the school-room best, and I pretend there’s a kind, gentle teacher-lady, and lots of books and slates and things; and I learn away like fury; and when I say me lessons, the teacher says, ‘That’s excellent, my child.’ I heard Ethel Green’s teacher say that to her once. Now I must go back to me choppin’, or I won’t have sufficient of sticks to gratify me friend Mrs. Tucker. Clear out, Jack; I can’t work if you’re here to talk to”; and as the boy hobbled away, she added: “I’m awful thankful to you for the muffin. I’ll pay back your kindness when I come into me fortune.”

Betty’s fortune was a standing joke among her small circle of acquaintances. It was purely traditional, and no one but Betty had any faith in the authenticity of the tale.

The facts of Betty’s early history were these: A young Irishman had come over to this country as an agent for a firm of Belfast linen-dealers. He had wooed and won a fair Boston girl contrary to the counsels of her parents, who had objected to Martin McGuire with no very good reason. But the young couple ran away and were married. For several years the parents continued implacable; then they relented, and wrote for Mr. and Mrs. McGuire and their baby daughter to come home and be forgiven.

“ ‘IT’S THE BEST I’VE ATE SINCE THE CRESCENT WAVED OVER THE CHURCH OF ST. SOPHIA.’ ”