by A. A. Milne
The First Clue
Nan and her chum were wildly excited. During their brief stay at Tillbury over Christmas they had been so busy, at home and abroad, that they had not thought much about Sallie Morton and Celia Snubbins, the two runaways.
In Nan’s case, not having seen her mother for ten months, she did not— at the last moment— even desire to come away from her and visit her school friends in Chicago.
There really was so much to say, so much to learn about Scotland and the beautiful old Emberon Castle and the village about it, and about the queer people Mrs. Sherwood had met, too! Oh! Nan hoped that she would see the place in time— the “Cradle of the Blake Clan,” as Mr. Sherwood called it.
There had been presents, of course, and in the giving and accepting of these Nan had found much pleasure and excitement— especially when she found a box of beautiful new clothes for her big doll, all made in Scotland by “Momsey,” who knew just how precious Beautiful Beulah was in her daughter’s eyes.
With all her work and play at Lakeview Hall, Nan Sherwood had not forgotten Beulah. The other girls of her age and in her grade were inclined to laugh at Nan for playing dolls; but at the last of the term Beautiful Beulah had held the post of honor in Room Seven, Corridor Four.
Nan’s love for dolls foreshadowed her love for babies. She never could pass a baby by without trying to make friends with it. The little girls at Lakeview Hall found a staunch friend and champion in Nan Sherwood. It was a great grief to Mrs. Sherwood and Nan that there were no babies in the “little dwelling in amity.” Nan could barely remember the brother that had come to stay with them such a little while, and then had gone away forever.
Nan’s heart was touched by the apparent needs of this street girl who had come to the rescue of Bess and herself when they arrived in Chicago. All the time she and her chum were trying to learn something about the two girls who had come to the great city to be moving picture actresses, and listening to what the flower-seller had to say about them, Nan was thinking, too, of their unfortunate little informant.
“Is that restaurant where you took those girls to eat near here?” she suddenly asked.
“Aw, say! ’tain’t no rest’rant,” said the child. “It’s just Mother Beasley’s hash-house.”
“Goodness!” gasped Bess. “Is it a nice place?”
The girl grinned. “‘Cordin’ ter what you thinks is nice. I ’spect you’d like the Auditorium Annex better. But Mother Beasley’s is pretty good when you ain’t got much to spend.”
Bess looked at Nan curiously. The latter was eager to improve this acquaintanceship so strangely begun, and for more than one reason.
“Could you show us to Mother Beasley’s— if it isn’t very far away?” Nan asked.
“Aw, say! What d’ye think? I ain’t nawthan’ ter do but beau greenies around this burg? A swell chaunc’t I’d have to git any eats meself. I gotter sell these posies, I have.”
“But you can eat with us!” Nan suggested.
“Oh, Nan!” Bess whispered. “Do you s’pose we can find any clue to those girls there?”
“I hope so,” returned Nan, in the same low voice.
“Goodness! I’m just as excited as I can be,” her chum went on to say. “We’ll be regular detectives. This beats being a movie actress, right now.”
Nan smiled, but in a moment was grave again. “I’d do a great deal for that lovely Mrs. Morton,” she said. “And even funny old Si Snubbins had tears in his eyes at the last when he begged us to find his Celia.”
“I know it,” Bess agreed sympathetically. “But I can’t help being excited just the same. If we should find them at this Mother Beasley’s— ”
“I don’t expect that; but we may hear of them there,” said Nan. “Here’s our new chum.”
The flower-girl had darted away to sell one of her little bouquets. Now she came back and took up the discussion where she had dropped it.
“Now about those eats,” she said. “I ain’t in the habit of eating at all hours; it don’t agree wid my constitootin, me doctor tells me. Fact is, sometimes I don’t eat much, if any.”
“Oh!” gasped Bess.
“That’s when I don’t sell out. An’ I got five posies left. I b’lieve I’d better take ye up on this offer. Youse pay for me feed for the pleasure of me comp’ny; hey?”
“That’s the answer,” said Nan, spiritedly. “We’re going to be good friends, I can see.”
“We are if youse is goin’ to pay for me eats,” agreed the girl.
“What is your name?” asked Nan, as their young pilot guided the chums across to the opening of a side-street. “Mine is Nan, and my friend’s is Bess.”
“Well, they calls me some mighty mean names sometimes; but my real, honest-to-goodness name is Inez. Me mudder was a Gypsy Queen and me fadder was boss of a section gang on de railroad somewhere. He went off and me mudder died, and I been livin’ with me aunt. She’s good enough when she ain’t got a bottle by her, and me and her kids have good times. But I gotter rustle for me own grub. We all haster.”
Nan and Bess listened to this, and watched the independent little thing in much amazement. Such a creature neither of the chums from Tillbury had ever before heard of or imagined.
“Do you suppose she is telling the truth?” whispered Bess to Nan.
“I don’t see why she should tell a wrong story gratuitously,” Nan returned.
“Come on, girls,” said Inez, turning into another street— narrower and more shabby than the first. “Lift your feet! I ain’t got no time to waste.”
Nan laughed and hastened her steps; but Bess looked doubtful.
“Hi!” exclaimed the street girl, “are you sure you two ain’t wantin’ to break into the movies, too?”
“Not yet,” proclaimed Nan. “But we would like to find a couple of girls who, I think, came to Chicago for that purpose.”
“Hi! them two I was tellin’ you about?”
“Perhaps.”
“Their folks want ’em back?” asked the street child, abruptly.
“I should say they did!” cried Bess.
“Ain’t they the sillies!” exclaimed Inez. “Catch me leavin’ a place where they didn’t beat me too much and where the eats came reg’lar.”
“Oh!” again ejaculated Bess.
Just then a little boy, more ragged even than their guide, approached. At once Inez proceeded to shove him off the sidewalk, and when he objected, she slapped him soundly.
“Why, goodness me, child!” cried the astonished Nan, “what did you do that for? Did he do anything to you?”
“Nope. Never seen him before,” admitted Inez. “But I pitch into all the boys I see that I’m sure I can whip. Then they let me alone. They think I’m tough. These boys wouldn’t let a girl sell a flower, nor a newspaper, nor nothin’, if they could help it. We girls got ter fight ’em.”
“The beginning of suffragism,” groaned Nan.
“I never heard of such a thing!” Bess cried. “Fighting the boys— how disgraceful!”
Inez stared at her. “Hi!” she finally exclaimed, “you wouldn’t make much if you didn’t fight, I can tell ye. When I see a boy with a basket of posies, I pull it away from him and tear ’em up. Boys ain’t got no business selling posies around here. That’s a girl’s job, and I’m goin’ to show ’em, I am!”
Nan and Bess listened to this with mingled emotions. It was laughable, yet pitiful. Little boys and girls fighting like savages for a bare existence. The chums were silent the rest of the way to the old brick house— just a “slice” out of a three-story-and-basement row of such houses, which Inez announced to be “Mother Beasley’s.”
“Sometimes she’s got her beds all full and you hafter wait for lodgin’s. Mebbe she’ll let you camp in her room, or in one of the halls up-stairs.”
“Oh, but, my dear, we don’t wish to stay!” Nan said. “Only to eat here and inquire about those other girls.”
“Where’ ye goin’ to stop?”
asked Inez, curiously.
“We have friends out by Washington Park,” Bess said. “They’d have met us, only there was some mistake in the arrival of our train.”
“Hi! Washington Park?” exclaimed the flower-seller. “Say, you must be big-bugs.”
Nan laughed. “I guess they are,” she said.
“Youse won’t be suited with Mother Beasley’s grub,” said the girl, hesitating at the basement steps.
“I believe she’s right,” Bess said faintly, as the odor of cooking suddenly burst forth with the opening of the door under the long flight leading to the front door of the house.
“I’ve eaten in a lumber camp,” said Nan, stoutly. “I’m sure this can’t be as hard.”
Contrasts
A girl not much bigger than Inez, nor dressed much better, came out of the basement door of Mother Beasley’s, wiping her lips on the back of her hand.
“Hullo, Ine!” she said to the flower-seller. “Who you got in tow? Some more greenies.”
“Never you mind, Polly,” returned Inez. “They’re just friends of mine— on their way to Washington Park.”
“Yes— they— be!” drawled the girl called Polly.
“Hi! that’s all right,” chuckled Inez. “I t’ought I’d make ye sit up and take notice. But say! wot’s good on the menu ter-day?”
“Oh, say! take me tip,” said Polly. “Order two platters of Irish stew an’ a plate o’ ham an’ eggs. Youse’ll have a bully feed then. Eggs is cheap an’ Mother Beasley’s givin’ t’ree fer fifteen cents, wid the ham throwed in. That’ll give youse each an egg an’ plenty of stew in the two platters for all t’ree.”
This arrangement of a course dinner on so economical a plan made Bess open her eyes, while Nan was greatly amused.
“How strong’s the bank?” asked Inez of Nan, whom she considered the leader of the expedition. “Can we stand fifteen cents apiece?”
“I think so,” returned the girl from Tillbury, gravely.
“Good as gold, then!” their pilot said. “We’ll go to it. By-by, Polly!”
She marched into the basement. Bess would never have dared proceed that far had it not been for Nan’s presence.
A woman with straggling gray hair met them at the door of the long dining-room. She had a tired and almost toothless smile; but had it not been for her greasy wrapper, uncombed hair and grimy nails, Mother Beasley might have been rather attractive.
“Good afternoon, dearies,” she said. “Dinner’s most over; but maybe we can find something for you. You goin’ to eat, Inez?”
“Ev’ry chance’t I get,” declared the flower-seller, promptly.
“Sit right down,” said Mrs. Beasley, pointing to the end of a long table, the red-and-white cloth of which was stained with the passage of countless previous meals, and covered with the crumbs from “crusty” bread.
Bess looked more and more doubtful. Nan was more curious than she was hungry. Inez sat down promptly and began scraping the crumbs together in a little pile, which pile when completed, she transferred to the oil-cloth covered floor with a dexterous flip of the knife.
“Come on!” she said. “Shall I order for youse?”
“We are in your hands, Inez,” declared Nan, gravely. “Do with us as you see fit.”
“Mercy!” murmured Bess, sitting down gingerly enough, after removing her coat in imitation of her chum.
“Hi!” shouted Inez, in her inimitable way. “Hi, Mother Beasley! bring us two orders of the Irish and one ham an’ eggs. Like ’em sunny-side up?”
“Like what sunny-side up?” gasped Bess.
“Yer eggs.”
“Which is the sunny-side of an egg?” asked Bess faintly, while Nan was convulsed with laughter.
“Hi!” ejaculated Inez again. “Ain’t you the greenie? D’ye want yer egg fried on one side, or turned over?”
“Turned over,” Bess murmured.
“An’ you?” asked the flower-seller of Nan.
“I always like the sunny-side of everything,” our Nan admitted.
“Hi, Mother Beasley!” shouted Inez, to the woman in the kitchen. “Two of them eggs sunny-side up, flop the other.”
Nan burst out laughing again at this. Bess was too funny for anything— to look at!
There were other girls in the long room, but none near where Nan and Bess and their strange little friend sat. Plainly the strangers were working girls, somewhat older than the chums, and as they finished their late dinners, one by one, they went out. Some wore cheap finery, but most of them showed the shabby hall-mark of poverty in their garments.
By and by the steaming food appeared. Inez had been helping herself liberally to bread and butter and the first thing Mother Beasley did was to remove the latter out of the flower-seller’s reach.
“It’s gone up two cents a pound,” she said plaintively. “But if it was a dollar a pound some o’ you girls would never have no pity on neither the bread nor the butter.”
The stew really smelled good. Even Bess tried it with less doubt. Inez ate as though she had fasted for a week and never expected to eat again.
“Will you have coffee, dearies?” asked Mother Beasley.
“Three cents apiece extry,” said Inez, hoarsely.
“Yes, please,” Nan said. “And if there is pie, we will have pie.”
“Oh, you pie!” croaked Inez, aghast at such recklessness. “I reckon you do ’blong up to Washington Park.”
Nan had to laugh again at this, and even Bess grew less embarrassed. When Mrs. Beasley came back with the coffee and pie, Nan drew her into conversation.
“Inez, here, says she introduced two other girls from the country to your home a few days ago,” said Nan. “Two girls who were looking for jobs with the movies.”
“Were they?” asked Mrs. Beasley, placidly. “My girls are always looking for jobs. When they get ’em, if they are good jobs, they go to live where the accommodations are better. I do the best I can for ’em; but I only accommodate poor girls.”
“And I think you really must do a great deal of good, in your way, Mrs. Beasley,” Nan declared. “Did these two we speak of chance to stay with you until now?”
“I was thinkin’,” said Mrs. Beasley. “I know, now, the ones you mean. Yes, Inez did bring ’em. But they only stayed one night. They wus used to real milk, and real butter, and strictly fresh eggs, and feather beds. They was real nice about it; but I showed ’em how I couldn’t give ’em live-geese feather beds an’ only charge ’em a dollar apiece a week for their lodgin’s.
“They had money— or ‘peared to have. And they heard the movin’ picture studios were all on the other side of town. So they went away.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Bess.
“Well, they were all right at that time. I’ll write and tell Mrs. Morton,” Nan said.
“Did they tell you their names, Mrs. Beasley?” she asked.
“Bless you! if they did, I don’t remember. I have twenty-five girls all the time and lots of ’em only stay a few nights. I couldn’t begin to keep track of ’em, or remember their names.”
This was all the information the chums could get from Mrs. Beasley regarding the girls whom Nan and Bess believed to be the runaways. A little later they went out with Inez, the latter evidently filled to repletion.
“Hi! but that was a feed! You girls must be millionaires’ daughters, like the newspapers tell about,” said the street girl.
“Oh, no, we’re not,” Nan cried.
“Well, you better be joggin’ along toward Washington Park. I don’t want youse should get robbed while I’m with you. Mebbe the police’d think I done it.”
“If you will put us on the car that goes near this address,” said Nan, seriously, showing Inez Walter Mason’s card, “we’ll be awfully obliged.”
Inez squinted at the address. “I kin do better’n that,” she declared. “I’ll put youse in a jitney that’ll drop ye right at the corner of the street— half a block away.”
“Oh! a jitney!” Bess cried. “Of course.”
Inez marched them a couple of blocks and there, on a busy corner, hailed the auto-buss. Before this Nan had quietly obtained from the child her home address and the name of her aunt.
“In you go,” said the flower-seller. Then she shouted importantly to the ’bus-driver: “I got your number, mister! You see’t these ladies gets off at their street or you’ll get deep into trouble. Hear me?”
“Sure, Miss! Thank ye kindly, Miss,” said the chauffeur, saluting, with a grin, and the jitney staggered on over the frozen snow and ice of the street.
They came to the Mason house, safe and sound. An important-looking man in a tail coat and an imposing shirt-front let the girls into the great house.
“Yes, Miss,” he said, in answer to Nan’s inquiry. “There must have been some mistake, Miss. Miss Grace and Mister Walter went to the station to meet you, and returned long ago. I will tell them you have arrived.”
He turned away in a stately manner, and Bess whispered: “I feel just as countrified as that little thing said we looked.”
Nan was looking about the reception room and contrasting its tasteful richness with Mother Beasley’s place.
A Spin In The Park
Grace’s home was a beautiful, great house, bigger than the Harley’s at Tillbury, and Nan Sherwood was impressed by its magnificence and by the spacious rooms. Her term at Lakeview Hall had made Nan much more conversant with luxury than she had been before. At home in the little cottage on the by-street, although love dwelt there, the Sherwoods had never lived extravagantly in any particular. Mrs. Sherwood’s long invalidism had eaten up the greater part of Mr. Sherwood’s salary when he worked in the Atwater Mills; and now that Mrs. Sherwood’s legacy from her great uncle, Hugh Blake of Emberon, was partly tied up in the Scotch courts, the Sherwoods would continue to limit their expenditures.
At Mrs. Sherwood’s urgent request, her husband was going into the automobile business. A part of the money they had brought back from Scotland had already been used in fitting up a handsome showroom and garage on the main street of Tillbury; and some other heavy expenses had fallen upon Mr. Sherwood, for which he would, however, be recompensed by the sale of the first few cars.
