Pollyanna Grows Up Eleanor H. Porter (booksvooks .TXT) đ
- Author: Eleanor H. Porter
Book online «Pollyanna Grows Up Eleanor H. Porter (booksvooks .TXT) đ». Author Eleanor H. Porter
Jerry waved his arms angrily.
âHere, you, beat it!â he yelled to the motley throng. âThis ainât no free movies! Can that racket and get a move on ye. Lively, now! We gotta get by. Jamieâs got compâny.â
Mrs. Carew shuddered again, and laid a trembling hand on Jerryâs shoulder.
âNotâ âhere!â she recoiled.
But the boy did not hear. With shoves and pushes from sturdy fists and elbows, he was making a path for his charges; and before Mrs. Carew knew quite how it was done, she found herself with the boy and Pollyanna at the foot of a rickety flight of stairs in a dim, evil-smelling hallway.
Once more she put out a shaking hand.
âWait,â she commanded huskily. âRemember! Donât either of you say a word aboutâ âabout his being possibly the boy Iâm looking for. I must see for myself first, andâ âquestion him.â
âOf course!â agreed Pollyanna.
âSure! Iâm on,â nodded the boy. âI gotta go right off anyhow, so I wonât bother ye none. Now toddle easy up these âere stairs. Thereâs always holes, and most generally thereâs a kid or two asleep somewheres. Anâ the elevator ainât runninâ ter-day,â he gibed cheerfully. âWe gotta go ter the top, too!â
Mrs. Carew found the âholesââ âbroken boards that creaked and bent fearsomely under her shrinking feet; and she found one âkidââ âa two-year-old baby playing with an empty tin can on a string which he was banging up and down the second flight of stairs. On all sides doors were opened, now boldly, now stealthily, but always disclosing women with tousled heads or peering children with dirty faces. Somewhere a baby was wailing piteously. Somewhere else a man was cursing. Everywhere was the smell of bad whiskey, stale cabbage, and unwashed humanity.
At the top of the third and last stairway the boy came to a pause before a closed door.
âIâm just a-thinkinâ what Sir Jamesâll say when heâs wise ter the prize package Iâm bringinâ him,â he whispered in a throaty voice. âI know what mumseyâll doâ âsheâll turn on the weeps in no time ter see Jamie so tickled.â The next moment he threw wide the door with a gay: âHere we beâ âanâ we come in a buzz-wagon! Ainât that goinâ some, Sir James?â
It was a tiny room, cold and cheerless and pitifully bare, but scrupulously neat. There were here no tousled heads, no peering children, no odors of whiskey, cabbage, and unclean humanity. There were two beds, three broken chairs, a dry-goods-box table, and a stove with a faint glow of light that told of a fire not nearly brisk enough to heat even that tiny room. On one of the beds lay a lad with flushed cheeks and fever-bright eyes. Near him sat a thin, white-faced woman, bent and twisted with rheumatism.
Mrs. Carew stepped into the room and, as if to steady herself, paused a minute with her back to the wall. Pollyanna hurried forward with a low cry just as Jerry, with an apologetic âI gotta go now; goodbye!â dashed through the door.
âOh, Jamie, Iâm so glad Iâve found you,â cried Pollyanna. âYou donât know how Iâve looked and looked for you every day. But Iâm so sorry youâre sick!â
Jamie smiled radiantly and held out a thin white hand.
âI ainât sorryâ âIâm glad,â he emphasized meaningly; âââcause itâs brought you to see me. Besides, Iâm better now, anyway. Mumsey, this is the little girl, you know, that told me the glad gameâ âand mumseyâs playing it, too,â he triumphed, turning back to Pollyanna. âFirst she cried âcause her back hurts too bad to let her work; then when I was took worse she was glad she couldnât work, âcause she could be here to take care of me, you know.â
At that moment Mrs. Carew hurried forward, her eyes half-fearfully, half-longingly on the face of the lame boy in the bed.
âItâs Mrs. Carew. Iâve brought her to see you, Jamie,â introduced Pollyanna, in a tremulous voice.
The little twisted woman by the bed had struggled to her feet by this time, and was nervously offering her chair. Mrs. Carew accepted it without so much as a glance. Her eyes were still on the boy in the bed.
âYour name isâ âJamie?â she asked, with visible difficulty.
âYes, maâam.â The boyâs bright eyes looked straight into hers.
âWhat is your other name?â
âI donât know.â
âHe is not your son?â For the first time Mrs. Carew turned to the twisted little woman who was still standing by the bed.
âNo, madam.â
âAnd you donât know his name?â
âNo, madam. I never knew it.â
With a despairing gesture Mrs. Carew turned back to the boy.
âBut think, thinkâ âdonât you remember anything of your name butâ âJamie?â
The boy shook his head. Into his eyes was coming a puzzled wonder.
âNo, nothing.â
âHavenât you anything that belonged to your father, with possibly his name in it?â
âThere wasnât anythinâ worth savinâ but them books,â interposed Mrs. Murphy. âThemâs his. Maybe youâd like to look at âem,â she suggested, pointing to a row of worn volumes on a shelf across the room. Then, in plainly uncontrollable curiosity, she asked: âWas you thinkinâ you knew him, maâam?â
âI donât know,â murmured Mrs. Carew, in a half-stifled voice, as she rose to her feet and crossed the room to the shelf of books.
There were not manyâ âperhaps ten or a dozen. There was a volume of Shakespeareâs plays, an âIvanhoe,â a much-thumbed âLady of the Lake,â a book of miscellaneous poems, a coverless âTennyson,â a dilapidated âLittle Lord Fauntleroy,â and two or three books of ancient and medieval history. But, though Mrs. Carew looked carefully through every one, she found nowhere any written word. With a despairing sigh she turned back to the boy and to the woman, both of whom now were watching her with startled, questioning eyes.
âI wish youâd tell meâ âboth of youâ âall you know about yourselves,â she said brokenly, dropping herself once more into the chair by the bed.
And they told her. It was much the same story that Jamie had told Pollyanna in the Public Garden. There was little that was new, nothing that was significant,
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