mudda, can i have a book and learn to read?"
the ambition had been inspired in the street, where he had seen a little boy who actually had a book, and was spelling out the words. tom coburn was now nominally six years old, though it was in the nature of things that of his age no exact record could be kept. his mother had changed his birthday so many times that he observed it whenever she said it had come round.
bursting into the room with his eager question, he found her sitting by a window looking out at a blank wall. given her feverish restlessness, the attitude called attention to itself. the apartment was poorer and dingier than any they had lived in hitherto, while it had not escaped his observation that she was living on the ragged edge of her nerves. this made him the more sorry for her, and the more loving. he put his hand on her shoulder, tenderly.
"what's the matter, mudda?"
it was one of the minutes when a touch made her frantic. "get away!"
he got away, not through fear, but because she pushed him. he didn't mind that, though the rejection hurt him inside. he stood in the middle of the floor, pity in his young countenance, wondering what he could do for her, when she spoke again.
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"i've got hardly any money left. i don't know what to do."
it was the first time his attention had been called to finance. he knew there was such a thing as money; he knew it had purchasing value; but he had not known its relation to himself.
"why don't you get money where you got it before?"
"because i ain't got a husband to die and leave me another five thousand dollars of insurance."
"and did you have, mudda?"
"of course i had. what did you think?"
the question voiced his inner difficulty. he had not known what to think. having observed that a fundamental social unit was formed of husbands and wives, he had also understood that husbands and wives could, in the terms which were the last to hang over from the lingo of his babyhood, be translated into faddas and muddas. they in turn implied children. the methods were mysterious, but the unit was so composed. the exception to this rule seemed to be himself. though he had a mudda, he could not remember ever to have heard of a fadda. he had pondered on this deficiency more times than anyone suspected. the effort to link himself up with the human family was far more important to him now than the ways and means of getting cash. standing pensive, he peered into the blinding light, or the unfathomable darkness, whichever it may be, out of which comes human life.
"mudda, did gracie have a fadda?"
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she snapped peevishly, her gaze again turned outward to the stone wall. "of course she did."
he came nearer to his point. "did i?"
"i—i suppose so."
he approached still nearer. "did i have the same fadda what gracie had?"
"no, you hadn't." she caught herself up hurriedly, rounding on him in one of her fits of wrath. "yes, you had."
the inconsistency was evident. "well, which was it, mudda?"
she jumped to her feet, threateningly. "now you quit! the next thing you'll be saying is that your name is whitelaw, and that i stole you. take that, you nasty little brat!"
a smack on the cheek brought the color to his face, and the tears to his eyes. "no, i won't, mudda. i won't say you stole me, or that my name is—" oddly enough he had caught it—"or that my name is whitelaw. my name is tom coburn, and i'm your little boy."
rushing at her in the big outpouring of his love, he threw his arms about her and cried against her waist. he cried so seldom that his grief drove her to one of her paroxysms of repentance. her self-reproaches abating, all she could do to comfort him was to promise him a book, and begin to teach him to read.
the book was procured two days later, and by a method new to him. doubtless some other means could have been adopted, but the necessity for sparing pennies had become imperative. moreover, she had
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never willingly looked at print since the day when she opened a paper to find that, without knowing who she was, all the forces of the country had been organized against her.
they went out together. after traversing a series of streets he had never been in before they stopped in front of a little shop, in the window of which stationery, ink, wallpaper, rubber bands, and books were arranged in artistic confusion. the impression on the fancy of a little boy already groping toward the treasures of the mind was like that made on the tourist in dresden by the heaped up riches of the grüne gewölbe.
the geography of the shop was explained to him before entering. the stationery counter was on the right as soon as you passed the door. the children's books were opposite, on the left. books forming a cheap circulating library were back of that, and opposite these, where the shop was dark, were the wallpapers, in small, tight rolls on shelves. she was going to inspect wallpapers. the woman in the shop would exhibit them. he would remain alone in the front part of the shop, and close to the counter with the children's books. he was to keep alert and attentive, waiting for a sign which she would give him. when she turned round in the dark part of the shop, and called out, "are you all right, darling?" he was to understand it as permissible to slip from the counter any small work on which he could lay his hands, and button it up inside his overcoat. he was to do it quickly, keeping his booty out of sight, and above all
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saying nothing about it. the plan was exciting, with a savor of adventure and manly incentive to skill.
if in the grüne gewölbe you were told you could take anything you pleased you would have some of tom coburn's sense of enchantment as he stood by the book counter, waiting for the sign. he could see his mother dimly. more dimly still he could follow the movements of the shop-woman eager for a sale. sample after sample, the wallpapers were unrolled, and hung on an easel where their flowers lighted the obscurity. even at a distance he could do justice to their beauty, but more captivating than their glories were the wonders at his hand. pages in which children and animals disported in colors far beyond those of nature were piled in neat little rows, and so tempting that he ached for the signal. he couldn't choose; there was too much to choose from. he would put out his hand without looking, guided by fate.
"are you all right, darling?"
curiously to the little boy, the question came just when he himself could perceive that the shop-woman had dived beneath the counter for another example of her wares. all the conditions were propitious. no one was entering the shop; no one was looking through the window. without knowing the moralities of his act, he understood the need for secrecy. he stretched forth his arm. his fingers touched paper. in the fraction of a fraction of a second the object was within his overcoat, and pressed to his pounding heart.
a few minutes later his mother came smiling and chatting down toward the exit, giving her address,
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which the shop-woman jotted in a notebook. "i think it will have to be the pale-green background with the roses. the room is darkish, and it would light it up. but i'll decide by to-morrow, and let you know. yes, that's right. mrs. f.h. grover, 321 blaisdel avenue. so much obliged to you. good morning."
having bowed themselves out they went some yards up the street before the little boy dared to express his new wonderment.
"mudda, what did you say you was mrs. f.h. grover for? and we don't live on blaisdel avenue. we live on orange street."
"you mind your own business. did you get your book? well, that's what we went for, isn't it?"
the expedition having proved successful, it was tried on other planes. now it was in the line of groceries; now in that of hardware; now in that of drygoods; now in that of fruit. needed things could be used; useless things could be sold, especially after they had moved to distant neighborhoods. while the procedure didn't supply an income, it eked out very helpfully such income as remained.
it furnished, moreover, a motive in life, which was what they had lacked hitherto. there was something to which to give themselves. it was like devotion to an art, or even a religion. they could pursue it for its own sake. for her especially this outside interest appeased the wild something which wasted her within. she grew calmer, more reasonable. she slept and ate better. she had fewer fits of frenzy.
with but faint pangs of misgiving the little boy
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enjoyed himself. he enjoyed his finesse; he enjoyed the pride his mother took in him. in proportion as they grew more expert they enlarged their field, often reversing their rôles. there were times when he created the distraction, while she secreted any object within reach. they did this the more frequently after she became recognized as his superior in selection.
for a superior in selection the great department stores naturally offered the widest field for operation. they approached them, however, cautiously, going in and out and out and in for a good many days before they ventured on anything. when they did this at last it was amid the crowding and pushing of a bargain day.
the system evolved had the masterly note of simplicity. the little boy carried a satchel, of the kind in which school-boys sometimes carry books. he stood near his mudda, or farther away, according to the dictates of the moment's strategy. on the first occasion he kept close to her, sincerely admiring a display of colored silk scarves conspicuously marked down to the price at which it was intended, even before their importation, that they should be sold. women thronged about the counter, the little boy and his mudda having much ado to edge themselves into the front to where these products of the loom could be handled.
the picking and choosing done, the mother still showed some indecision.
"i'll just ask my sister to step over here," she confided to the saleswoman. "her judgment is so much better than mine. run over, dear, to your aunt
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mary," she begged of the boy, "and ask her to come and speak to me." holding the scarf noticeably in her hands, she smiled at the saleswoman affably. "i'll just make room for this lady, who seems to be in a hurry."
she did not step back; she merely allowed herself to be crowded out. from the front row she receded to the second, from the second to the third. keeping in sight of the saleswoman, she looked this way and that, plainly for aunt mary to appear. at times she made little dashes, as aunt mary seemed to come within sight. from these she did not fail to return, but on each occasion to a point more distant from that of her departure. with sufficient time the poor saleswoman, who had fifty other customers to attend to, would be likely to forget her, for a few minutes if no more.
the moment seemed to have come. with the scarf thrown jauntily over her arm where anyone could see it, the mother forced her way amid the crowds in search of her little boy. if intercepted she had her explanation. he had gone on an errand, and had not come back. when she had found him she would return and pay for the scarf, or decide not to take it. her story couldn't help being plausible.
"aunt mary" was a spot agreed upon near one of the side doors, and far from the center of interest in silk scarves. agreed upon was also a little bit of comedy, for the benefit of possible lookers-on.
"oh, my dear, i've kept you waiting so long. i'm so sorry. tell your mother this is the best i could do for her. i knew you were waiting, so i didn't let
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the lady wrap it up. open your bag, and i'll put it in."
the bag closed, the little boy went out through one door, and his mother through another. the point where she was to rejoin him was not so far away but that he could walk to it alone.
