style="font-size:15px;"> “I don’t believe she is my grandmother. I only call her so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tom.”
“Tom!” repeated the boy, in surprise. “Aint you a girl?”
“Yes; I expect so.”
“It’s hard to tell from your clothes, you know;” and he scanned Tom’s queer figure attentively.
Tom was sitting on a low step with her knees nearly on a level with her chin, and her hands clasped around them. She had on her cap of the morning, and her jacket, which, by the way, had been given to granny when on a begging expedition, and appropriated to Tom’s use, without special reference to her sex. Tom didn’t care much. It made little difference to her whether she was in the fashion or not; and if the street boys chaffed her, she was abundantly able to give them back as good as they sent.
“What’s the matter with my clothes?” said Tom.
“You’ve got on a boy’s cap and jacket.”
“I like it well enough. As long as it keeps a feller warm I don’t mind.”
“Do you call yourself a feller?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a queer feller.”
“Don’t you call me names, ’cause I won’t stand it;” and Tom raised a pair of sharp, black eyes.
“I won’t call you names, at least not any bad ones. Have you had any dinner?”
“Yes,” said Tom, smacking her lips, as she recalled her delicious repast, “I had a square meal.”
“What do you call a square meal?”
“Roast beef, cup o’ coffee, and pie.”
The boy was rather surprised, for such a dinner seemed beyond Tom’s probable resources.
“Your granny don’t treat you so badly, after all. That’s just the kind of dinner I had.”
“Granny didn’t give it to me. I bought it. That’s what she wants to lick me for. All she give me was a piece of hard bread.”
“Where did you get the money? Was it hers?”
“That’s what she says. But if a feller works all the mornin’ for some money, hasn’t she got a right to keep some of it?”
“I should think so.”
“So should I,” said Tom, decidedly.
“Have you got any money?”
“No, I spent it all for dinner.”
“Then here’s some.”
The boy drew from his vest-pocket twenty-five cents, and offered it to Tom.
The young Arab felt no delicacy in accepting the pecuniary aid thus tendered.
“Thank you,” said she. “You can call me names if you want to.”
“What should I want to call you names for?” asked the boy, puzzled.
“There was a gent called me names this mornin’, and give me twenty cents for doin’ it.”
“What did he call you?”
“I dunno; but it must have been something awful bad, it was so long.”
“You’re a strange girl, Tom.”
“Am I? Well, I reckon I am. What’s your name?”
“John Goodwin.”
“John Goodwin?” repeated Tom, by way of fixing it in her memory.
“Yes; haven’t you got any other name than Tom?”
“I dunno. I think granny called me Jane once. But it’s a good while ago. Everybody calls me Tom, now.”
“Well, Tom, I must be getting back to the store. Good-by. I hope you’ll get along.”
“All right!” said Tom. “I’m goin’ into business with that money you give me.”
CHAPTER V
TOM GAINS A VICTORY
Granny mounted the stairs two at a time; so eager was she to force a surrender on the part of the rebellious Tom. She was a little out of breath when she reached the fourth landing, and paused an instant to recover it. Tom was at that moment half-way down the rope; but this she did not suspect.
Recovering her breath, she strode to the door. Before making an assault with the hatchet, she decided to summon Tom to a surrender.
“Tom!” she called out.
Of course there was no answer.
“Why don’t you answer?” demanded granny, provoked.
She listened for a reply, but Tom remained obstinately silent, as she interpreted it.
“If you don’t speak, it’ll be the wuss for ye,” growled granny.
Again no answer.
“I’ll find a way to make you speak. Come and open the door, or I’ll break it down. I’ve got a hatchet.”
But the old woman had the conversation all to herself.
Quite beside herself now with anger, she no longer hesitated; but with all her force dealt a blow which buried the hatchet deep in the door.
“Jest wait till I get in!” she muttered. “Will ye open it now?”
But there was no response.
While she was still battering at the door one of the neighbors came up from below.
“What are you doin’, Mrs. Walsh?” for such was granny’s name.
“I’m tryin’ to get in.”
“Why don’t you open the door?”
“Tom’s locked it. She won’t let me in,” said granny, finishing the sentence with a string of profane words which had best be omitted.
“You’ll have a good bill to pay to the landlord, Mrs. Walsh.”
“I don’t care,” said granny. “I’m goin’ to get at that trollop, and beat her within an inch of her life.”
Another vigorous blow broke the lock, and the door flew open.
Granny rushed in, after the manner of a devouring lion ready to pounce upon her prey. But she stopped short in dismay. Tom was not visible!
Thinking she might be in the closet, the old woman
