Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World by Jr. Horatio Alger (ebook voice reader TXT) 📕

always be listening to the music, don’t you know. I had a fwiend with me last evening—an Englishman—a charming fellow, I assure you. He’s the second cousin of a lord, and yet—you’ll hardly credit it—we’re weally vewy intimate. He tells me, Miss Florence, that I’m the perfect image of his cousin, Lord Fitz Noodle.”

“I am not at all surprised.”

“Weally, you are vewy kind, Miss Florence. I thought it a great compliment. I don’t know how it is, but evewybody takes me for an Englishman. Strange, isn’t it?”

“I am very glad.”

“May I ask why, Miss Florence?”

“Because—— Well, perhaps I had better not explain. It seems to give you pleasure. You would, probably, prefer to be an Englishman.”

“I admit that I have a great admiration for the English character. It’s a gweat pity we have no lords in America. Now, if you would only allow me to bring my English fwiend here——

“I don’t care to make any new acquaintances. Even if I did, I prefer my own countrymen. Don’t you like America, Mr. de Brabazon?”

“Oh, of courth, if we only had some lords here.”

“We have plenty of flunkeys.”

“That’s awfully clevah, ’pon my word.”

“Is it? I am afraid you are too complimentary. You are very good-natured.”

“I always feel good-natured in your company, Miss Florence. I—wish I could always be with you.”

“Really! Wouldn’t that be a trifle monotonous?” asked Florence, sarcastically.

“Not if we were married,” said Percy, boldly breaking the ice.

“What do you mean, Mr. de Brabazon?”

“I hope you will excuse me, Miss Florence—Miss Linden, I mean; but I’m awfully in love with you, and have been ever so long—but I never dared to tell you so. I felt so nervous, don’t you know? Will you marry me? I’ll be awfully obliged if you will.”

Mr. de Brabazon rather awkwardly slipped from his chair, and sank on one knee before Florence.

“Please arise, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, hurriedly. “It is quite out of the question—what you ask—I assure you.”

“Ah! I see how it is,” said Percy, clasping his hands sadly. “You love another.”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Then I may still hope?”

“I cannot encourage you, Mr. de Brabazon. My heart is free, but it can never be yours.”

“Then,” said Percy, gloomily, “there is only one thing for me to do.”

“What is that?”

“I shall go to the Bwooklyn Bwidge, climb to the parapet, jump into the water, and end my misewable life.”

“You had better think twice before adopting such a desperate resolution, Mr. de Brabazon. You will meet others who will be kinder to you than I have been——”

“I can never love another. My heart is broken. Farewell, cruel girl. When you read the papers tomorrow morning, think of the unhappy Percy de Brabazon!”

Mr. de Brabazon folded his arms gloomily, and stalked out of the room.

“If my position were not so sad, I should be tempted to smile,” said Florence. “Mr. de Brabazon will not do this thing. His emotions are as strong as those of a butterfly.”

After a brief pause Florence seated herself at the table, and drew toward her writing materials.

“It is I whose heart should be broken!” she murmured; “I who am driven from the only home I have ever known. What can have turned against me my uncle, usually so kind and considerate? It must be that Curtis has exerted a baneful influence upon him. I cannot leave him without one word of farewell.”

She took up a sheet of paper, and wrote, rapidly:

“Dear Uncle: You have told me to leave your house, and I obey. I cannot tell you how sad I feel, when I reflect that I have lost your love, and must go forth among strangers—I know not where. I was but a little girl when you gave me a home. I have grown up in an atmosphere of love, and I have felt very grateful to you for all you have done for me. I have tried to conform to your wishes, and I would obey you in all else—but I cannot marry Curtis; I think I would rather die. Let me still live with you as I have done. I do not care for any part of your money—leave it all to him, if you think best—but give me back my place in your heart. You are angry now, but you will some time pity and forgive your poor Florence, who will never cease to bless and pray for you. Good-bye!

“Florence.”

She was about to sign herself Florence Linden, but reflected that she was no longer entitled to use a name which would seem to carry with it a claim upon her uncle.

The tears fell upon the paper as she was writing, but she heeded them not. It was the saddest hour of her life. Hitherto she had been shielded from all sorrow, and secure in the affection of her uncle, had never dreamed that there would come a time when she would feel obliged to leave all behind her, and go out into the world, friendless and penniless, but poorest of all in the loss of that love which she had hitherto enjoyed.

After completing the note, Florence let her head fall upon the table, and sobbed herself to sleep.

An hour and a half passed, the servant looked in, but noticing that her mistress was sleeping, contented herself with lowering the gas, but refrained from waking her.

And so she slept on till the French clock upon the mantle struck eleven.

Five minutes later and the door of the room slowly opened, and a boy entered on tiptoe. He was roughly dressed. His figure was manly and vigorous, and despite his stealthy step and suspicious movements his face was prepossessing.

He started when he saw Florence.

“What, a sleeping gal!” he said to himself. “Tim told me I’d find the coast clear, but I guess she’s sound asleep, and won’t hear nothing. I don’t half like this job, but I’ve got to do as Tim told me. He says he’s my father, so I s’pose it’s all right. All the same, I shall be nabbed some day, and then the family’ll be disgraced. It’s a queer life I’ve led ever since I can remember. Sometimes I feel like leaving Tim, and settin’ up for myself. I wonder how ’twould seem to be respectable.”

The boy approached the secretary, and with some tools he had brought essayed to open it. After a brief delay he succeeded, and lifted the cover. He was about to explore it, according to Tim’s directions, when he heard a cry of fear, and turning swiftly saw Florence, her eyes dilated with terror, gazing at him.

“Who are you?” she asked in alarm, “and what are you doing there?”

Chapter V. Dodger.

The boy sprang to the side of Florence, and siezed her wrists in his strong young grasp.

“Don’t you alarm the house,” he said, “or I’ll——”

“What will you do?” gasped Florence, in alarm. The boy was evidently softened by her beauty, and answered in a tone of hesitation:

“I don’t know. I won’t harm you if you keep quiet.”

“What are you here for?” asked Florence, fixing her eyes on the boy’s face; “are you a thief?”

“I don’t know—yes, I suppose I am.”

“How sad, when you are so young.”

“What! miss, do you pity me?”

“Yes, my poor boy, you must be very poor, or you wouldn’t bring yourself to steal.”

“No. I ain’t poor; leastways, I have enough to eat, and I have a place to sleep.”

“Then why don’t you earn your living by honest means?”

“I can’t; I must obey orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Why, the guv’nor’s, to be sure.”

“Did he tell you to open that secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the guv’nor, as you call him?”

“I can’t tell; it wouldn’t be square.”

“He must be a very wicked man.”

“Well, he ain’t exactly what you call an angel, but I’ve seen wuss men than the guv’nor.”

“Do you mind telling me your own name?”

“No; for I know you won’t peach on me. Tom Dodger.”

“Dodger?”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t a surname.”

“It’s all I’ve got. That’s what I’m always called.”

“It is very singular,” said Florence, fixing a glance of mingled curiosity and perplexity upon the young visitor.

While the two were earnestly conversing in that subdued light, afforded by the lowered gaslight, Tim Bolton crept in through the door unobserved by either, tiptoed across the room to the secretary, snatched the will and a roll of bills, and escaped without attracting attention.

“Oh, I wish I could persuade you to give up this bad life,” resumed Florence, earnestly, “and become honest.”

“Do you really care what becomes of me, miss?” asked Dodger, slowly.

“I do, indeed.”

“That’s very kind of you, miss; but I don’t understand it. You are a rich young lady, and I’m only a poor boy, livin’ in a Bowery dive.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind, miss, such as you wouldn’t understand. Why, all my life I’ve lived with thieves, and drunkards, and bunco men, and——”

“But I’m sure you don’t like it. You are fit for something better.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Dodger, doubtfullly.

“Yes; you have a good face. You were meant to be good and honest, I am sure.”

“Would you trust me?” asked the boy, earnestly, fixing his large, dark eyes eloquently on the face of Florence.

“Yes, I would if you would only leave your evil companions, and become true to your better nature.”

“No one ever spoke to me like that before, miss,” said Dodger, his expressive features showing that he was strongly moved. “You think I could be good if I tried hard, and grow up respectable?”

“I am sure you could,” said Florence, confidently.

There was something in this boy, young outlaw though he was, that moved her powerfully, and even fascinated her, though she hardly realized it. It was something more than a feeling of compassion for a wayward and misguided youth.

“I could if I was rich like you, and lived in a nice house, and ’sociated with swells. If you had a father like mine——”

“Is he a bad man?”

“Well, he don’t belong to the church. He keeps a gin mill, and has ever since I was a kid.”

“Have you always lived with him?”

“Yes, but not in New York.”

“Where then?”

“In Melbourne.”

“That’s in Australia.”

“Yes, miss.”

“How long since you came to New York?”

“I guess it’s about three years.”

“And you have always had this man as a guardian? Poor boy!”

“You’ve got a different father from me, miss?”

Tears forced themselves to the eyes of Florence, as this remark brought forcibly to her mind the position in which she was placed.

“Alas!” she answered, impulsively, “I am alone in the world!”

“What! ain’t the old gentleman that lives here your father?”

“He is my uncle; but he is very, very angry with me, and has this very day ordered me to leave the house.”

“Why, what a cantankerous old ruffian he is, to be sure!” exclaimed the boy, indignantly.

“Hush! you must not talk against my uncle. He has always been kind to me till now.”

“Why, what’s up? What’s the old gentleman mad about?”

“He wants me to marry my cousin Curtis—a man I do not even like.”

“That’s a shame! Is it the dude I saw come out of the house a little while ago?”

“Oh, no; that’s a different gentleman. It’s Mr. de Brabazon.”

“You don’t want to marry him, do you?”

“No, no!”

“I’m glad of that. He don’t look as if he knew enough to come in when it rained.”

“The poor young man is not very brilliant, but I think I would rather marry him than Curtis Waring.”

“I’ve seen him, too. He’s got dark hair and a dark complexion, and a wicked look in his eye.”

“You, too, have noticed that?”

“I’ve seen such as him before. He’s a bad man.”

“Do you know anything about him?” asked Florence, eagerly.

“Only his looks.”

“I am not deceived,” murmured Florence, “it’s not wholly prejudice. The boy distrusts him, too. So you see, Dodger,” she added, aloud, “I am not a rich young lady, as you suppose. I must leave this house, and work for my living. I have no home any more.”

“If you have no home,” said Dodger, impulsively, “come home with me.”

“To the home you have described, my poor boy? How could I do that?”

“No; I will hire a room for you in a quiet street, and you shall be my sister. I will work for you, and give you my money.”

“You are kind, and I am glad to think I have found a friend when I need one most. But I could not accept stolen money. It would be as bad as if I, too, were a thief.”

“I am not a thief! That is, I won’t be any more.”

“And you will give up your plan of robbing my uncle?”

“Yes, I will; though I don’t know what my guv’nor will say. He’ll half murder me, I expect. He’ll be sure to cut up rough.”

“Do right, Dodger, whatever happens. Promise me that you will never steal again?”

“There’s my hand, miss—I promise. Nobody ever talked to me like you. I never thought much about bein’ respectable, and growin’ up to