Dear old Mrs. Yorke had improved rapidly under the care of the specialist who was treating her case; but she was ill at ease in her city quarters, partly because she was unaccustomed to her surroundings, partly because she was never certain, when the captain was away from her, that he was not doing some unheard-of thing which might bring him into a serious predicament. And now here was this trouble between Jim, of whom she and the captain were so proud and so fond, and her grandson, and the disgrace of the latter; so that just now her bed was not one of roses, and she longed for the quiet and peace of her simple seaside home.

“If Adam would but go home, and take the boy with him,” she sighed to Mammy one day, “I could be easy in my mind, for I know that Jabez and Matilda Jane and Mary would look after him well, and he would be out of harm’s way; but now I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some day he turned up in the police-court, just for doin’ something he thought was no harm, but that is against city rules. His ways and city folks’ ways ain’t alike. An’ there’s the boy, an’ what he’s done; all the school learnin’ in the world ain’t goin’ to pay for such a shame. No, you needn’t say it was on’y a boyish trick; you on’y say that to make me more easy like; an’ with thanks all the same to Governor Rutherford, I’d a sight rather he’d left Theodore down to the Point, an’ out of the way of such temptations as he gets here. An’ when they once begin that way as boys, you never know where they’ll end. No, no; I wish Adam and the boy were home.”

Poor Mrs. Yorke! She had, indeed, too much reason to dread the after results of “once beginning that way;” for Theodore seemed likely to follow in the footsteps of his good-for-nothing father.

Uncle Rutherford, of course, heard of the peanut episode, and expressed a fitting censure on Theodore’s conduct, both to our family and to the boy himself; but we said among ourselves, that he not only appeared to endorse, but to enjoy, Jim’s swift, passionate punishment of Theodore, and he escaped with a very slight reproof, if, indeed, the few words he said to him concerning the matter could be called reproof; and Milly felt no fear that he had lost ground with uncle Rutherford.

Fortunately the captain, knowing little or nothing of the streets, was given, when by himself, to haunting our neighborhood and the park opposite; so that he came much under the notice and patronage of the friendly policeman, whose daily beat was in that quarter, and who kept him on many an occasion from going astray, or making a spectacle of himself.

The captain had sought out Rob Stevens, insisted that he should tell him just how many times he had seen Theodore steal peanuts from Matty, and, so far as he could judge, to what amount each time; then counting up what he supposed them to be worth, which he put at an enormously high valuation the honest old man! that he might be sure to err on the right side, he forced Theodore to go with him to the stand, and pay Matty for the stolen fruit. He endeavored, too, to make him apologize to Jim, both for the theft of his property, and also for his contemptible meanness in keeping silent on the occasion of Jim’s attack on the playground. But here he was powerless: Theodore absolutely and doggedly refused to do it; and his grandfather was obliged to content himself with relieving his own feelings, and further expressing his sentiments on the boy’s conduct, by giving him a severe flogging.

Spring was upon us now; an early, mild, and beautiful spring. Day after day of sunny delicious weather succeeded one another; the children came home from their walks or drives in the Central Park, in ecstasies over the robins, blue-birds, and squirrels they had seen. In the woods at Oaklands, whither father went once or twice a week to have an eye upon his improvements and preparations for the summer, spring-beauties, hepaticas, and anémones, and even a few early violets, were showing their lovely faces; and all young things ah, and the older ones too were rejoicing that the “winter was past and gone.”

With the advent of the mild weather, Matty’s stand had been removed out of doors and beneath the shelter of Johnny Petersen’s shop; and this situation proved more profitable than it had been within, as many a charitable passer-by, seeing the pitiful figure and pinched face of the poor child, would stop to purchase. During the hours of the day when the sun was warm and bright, her surroundings were not much less attractive than they had been within; for the glass sashes of the little flower-store were generally wide open behind her, while Johnny frequently brought forth some of his plants for an airing upon the sidewalk.

As his custom increased with the warm weather, and people came for potted plants and so forth for their gardens and windows, Johnny occasionally found it necessary to be away for a few hours buying new stock at the larger greenhouses and markets; and when Mrs. Petersen did not find it convenient to take his place in the shop, he depended upon Tony to keep watch, and make small sales for him. The lame boy was bright and apt; and Johnny had drilled him well as to prices and so forth, and found him a tolerably satisfactory substitute during his own times of absence.

One would have thought that Theodore Yorke would have avoided the neighborhood of the peanut-stand after his exposure and disgrace; but it was not so. His grandfather had cut short the small amount of pocket-money which he had occasionally given him, and he was now left penniless, and so no more visited the place as a customer; but he seemed to take a delight in hanging around it, and annoying Matty and Tony, who were now on their guard, and watched him unceasingly. Tony and he frequently exchanged sundry compliments not suited to ears polite; and Johnny, if he saw him, would come out and drive him away. The shop was absolutely forbidden ground to him; within it he was not suffered to set a foot.

One bright afternoon when Johnny Petersen happened to be away, and Tony was in charge, Theodore came sauntering up to the stand, to the great dissatisfaction of the children. Matty was in her usual seat behind her table; Tony seated on the low door-step of the store, his crutches lying on the ground beside him and within reach of his hand.

Theodore came up, glanced into the store, and, seeing that the master was absent, addressed himself to the amiable amusement of teasing and worrying those who were too helpless to defend themselves.

“Me an’ Matty’s lookin’ out for ye, an’ ye needn’t come roun’ to be stealin’ no more peanuts,” said Tony at length, “an’ I’ll call the M. P. if you comes too close to the stand. We ain’t goin’ to stan’ no foolin’, we ain’t; an’ Jim told us you don’t have a cent of money now, so you ain’t come to buy with one hand an’ help yourself with t’other. It’d be helpin’ yourself with both; so clear out!”

“I ain’t comin’ near your old peanuts,” said Theodore; “an’ they ain’t yours, anyway.”

This style of converse continued for some minutes, growing more and more personal each instant; till at last Theodore said to Matty, who, according to her usual custom, had remained perfectly silent,

“If I had such a cushion on my back as yours, I wouldn’t make it bigger piling such a heap of hair on it. You look like a barber’s-shop show figger. I wonder you don’t sell yourself for a show figger. You’d look so pretty an’ smart.”

Matty only gave him one of her most vicious looks, and clinched her small claw-like hands as though they longed to be at him; but Tony answered for her.

“They don’t get no such hair to the barbers’ shops without payin’ lots for it,” he shouted; “an’ she ain’t no need to make a figger of herself. She can sell it for a heap of money, five dollars, if she chooses, Mr. Petersen says so, an’ Jim says so, too. But she ain’t a-goin’ to have it cut off; she likes it too much, an’ the ladies likes it, Jim’s ladies do, an’ they telled her to leave it hang down, an’ one on ’em give her a blue dress to make it look purtier on it; an’ she’s give her lots of things more. An’ they’ve give me lots of things, too; the olé un she give me a whole suit for Easter, an’ me an’ Matty looked as good as any of ’em. An’ Jim says now you keep off,” as Theodore drew nearer, “you keep off, or I’ll call the M.P. He ain’t so fur.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” said Theodore; “you’ve got to catch him first, and me, too, old Hippity-hop,” and with a kick he sent both crutches far beyond the reach of the lame boy, then, with a derisive laugh, ran off. And there Tony sat, helpless and unable to pursue, till a compassionate passer-by brought him the crutches; for Matty could not stoop for them. Had the old captain seen this cowardly, contemptible deed, he would probably have thought that all the waters of all the oceans could not “wash the meanness” from the soul of his grandson.

For the rest of that day and for the next, and for two or three succeeding ones, Theodore’s thoughts dwelt much upon this last interview with the two cripples; but do not let it be thought, with any disquieting reproaches from his conscience, or any feeling of remorse. To him, all that had passed was a mere nothing, not worth a second thought, save for the one idea which had made a deep impression on him.

That hair of Matty’s, that mass of beautiful, shining hair, which even his boyish, unpractised eye could see was something uncommon, worth five dollars; it was impossible! And yet could it be? If “Jim’s ladies” thought it so beautiful, it might be that it was worth a good deal of money. What fools, then, were Matty and Tony, the one for keeping it upon her head, the other for not persuading her to part with it, and taking a share of the money for himself! In all his life Theodore had never had so much money; and his mean, selfish soul at once set itself to devise means by which one he did not yet, even to his own thoughts, say himself could gain possession of the girl’s hair.

He had heard of girls being robbed, in the street, of their hair; but that would never do here with Matty, no, not even though he had an accomplice to help him. And he knew of no one to whom he could even suggest such a thing; for he had no acquaintances in the city save the boys in his school; and to no one of them could he or would he dare to propose it, although he knew that there were among them some who were none too scrupulous to do a shabby thing if they thought they could gain any advantage by it.

All this time I had vainly, as I thought, tried to gain any influence over Matty. She took my gifts, it is true, and wore or otherwise made use of them; but she never showed the slightest token of pleasure in them, or uttered one word of acknowledgment, and she was still entirely unresponsive to any other advances on my part. It was Tony, bright, jolly little Tony, who thanked me with real Irish effusion, always greeted me with the broadest of smiles, and testified his gratitude and appreciation of my efforts for Matty’s welfare by various small offerings, till I really wished I had chosen him to befriend instead of that hopeless subject, his sister. It became quite a little family joke, as almost every evening when he and Matty came to deliver the day’s earnings to Jim for it was not considered safe for them to carry the money to their own home he brought also some small token for “Jim’s second young lady,” whereby I was understood; now a couple of daisies, a rose, or two or three violets, or a few sprigs of mignonnette, begged from Dutch Johnny; now a bird’s nest, manufactured by himself out of twine and a few twigs; and once a huge turnip which he had seen fall from a market-cart as it passed on its way down the avenue, and picking it up, after vainly trying to make the carter hear, had laid it aside as a suitable gift for me; and another time he brought for my acceptance a hideous, miserable, half-starved kitten, which, as I was known by the servants to have a horror of cats, was declined for me both by Jim and Thomas, greatly to Tony’s mortification and disappointment.

At the Easter festival, when he and Matty had “looked as good as anybody,” to his mind, each child in the Sunday school had been presented with a small pot of pansies; and Tony, instead of taking his home, had come from the church to our house, and, asking for me by his usual title of “Jim’s second young lady,” had shyly presented his Easter token.

Yes, I would fain have made an exchange, and taken Tony as my charge; but pride, and the recollection of Milly’s fear that I would not persevere with Matty, forbade.

I had thought over all manner of plans for removing both children from the influence of their wretched home and drunken parents; but most of these were pronounced by the more experienced to be visionary and not feasible. So they still continued to return to them at night, although, “weather fair or weather foul, weather wet or weather dry,” they never failed to be present at their post as early as possible in the morning.

Miss Craven and I had taken from Jim the charge of providing the cripples’ dinner; and for a trifling sum Mrs. Petersen, who had no children of her own, gave them that meal and their supper in her room, so that in many respects they were far better off than they had been.

But still there seemed no loop-hole where I could insert a wedge for Matty’s moral regeneration; she appeared to remain hard, impenetrable, and suspicious.

The story of the “ducking” had, of course, been graphically rehearsed by those of the schoolboys who had witnessed it, to those who had not; and there were but few, if any, who did not enjoy the recital of Theodore’s punishment and disgrace. And from that time Captain Yorke had become a marked figure with the boys. Before this, he had not been known to many of them; but now he was pointed out by the few who had been present at the scene at the fountain, as the Spartan grandfather who had not hesitated to deal out punishment to his own flesh and blood, when it seemed to him that justice demanded it. He was often to be seen now in the park, the centre of an admiring and appreciative group, to whom he related thrilling adventures which were his own experience as a sailor and a surfman, holding his audience spell-bound, not only by their interest in the subject, but also by his quaint and simple manner of telling.

Among this audience one day, were the two boys who had been present at the theatre on the night when the captain had made such an exhibition of himself; and they recognized him at once. Of course, it was soon spread about that he was the hero of that adventure; and the next morning at school, Jim was asked if he had not known it. Acknowledging this, it was then inquired why he had not “got even with Theodore,” by turning the laugh on him, and telling that it was his grandfather who had made himself a laughingstock.

“‘Cause I wasn’t goin’ back on the old captain,” answered sturdy, loyal Jim. “He’s stood up for me, an’ been a good friend; an’ I ain’t goin’ to point him out for to be laughed at, not if he is Theodore’s grandfather.”

He expected to be laughed at in his turn, and stood with defiance and “laugh if you choose” in his air.

But no one laughed or jeered: somehow his steadfastness struck a chord in most of those boyish hearts; and Rob Stevens, clapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed,

“And ’tain’t the first time he’s held his tongue, either, is it, Peanuts? We’ll all vote for the feller that stan’s by his friends an’ don’t go back on ’em. Three cheers for President Jim Washington!”

And if a voice there was silent, save Theodore Yorke’s, it was not noticed in the number which responded.

School-life having by this time rubbed off some of his freshness, Jim had learned that it would be to his own advantage to discard several from the string of names which he had seen fit to adopt on his entrance; and he now contented himself with signing his name James R. L. Washington, which appeared upon all his books and any thing else to which he could lay claim.

After the manner of those who have fixed their minds upon that to which they have no right, the more the unprincipled Theodore thought of the mint of money, as he called it, upon Matty’s head, the more he wished that he could find the means to possess himself of the material to be so easily turned into that money; and he finally arranged a plan which he thought both practicable and safe.

“Matildy Jane,” whose theory it was that there were no articles of diet in New York “fit for plain folks to eat,” and who believed that her father and mother would return home only to die victims to indigestion brought on by high living, had sent, by the hands of a friend who came to the city, a large basket of apple turnovers and ginger cookies, in order that her parents might have “a taste of home cookin’.”

Slyly possessing himself of two of these turnovers and sundry cookies, Theodore thought to make his peace with Tony and Matty by bestowing them upon them, as an equivalent for the stolen peanuts; and having ascertained when Dutch Johnny was off on another purchasing expedition, and Tony left in charge, he hurried home, and came back to the florist’s shop with these delectable viands.

No sooner did Tony see him than he warned him off, threatening to call the police if Theodore came any nearer; but the latter hastened to propitiate him by holding up the turnovers and saying,

“Oh, I came to make up. Don’t make a row.”

Now, if there was any thing in which the soul of Tony delighted, it was an apple pasty of any shape or dimensions; and the tempter had unwittingly chosen his bait well.

Tony’s threats and denunciations ceased, and he sat staring at the proffered treat; while Theodore, seeing it was taking effect, drew a few steps nearer.

“Don’t you want ’em?” he said. “I’ve got one for you, and one for Matty; and I’ve got some ginger-cakes, too.”

Warned by past experience, Tony grasped his crutches, and, still expecting some trick, sat dubious, with his eyes fixed as if fascinated upon the coveted dainties, but still more than half inclined to call to the policeman, whom he saw upon the upper corner.

“Oh, come now!” repeated Theodore; “make up. Don’t you want ’em? They’re first-rate.”

The temptation proved irresistible; and, rising to his feet, Tony went toward his whilom antagonist in order to prevent him from coming too near the stand, accepted one of the turnovers, looked at it on all sides, smelled of it, and finally set his teeth deliberately but with caution into it; then turned, and looked inquiringly at Matty.

“Pisen!” uttered that little sceptic, still unconvinced that treachery did not lurk behind these demonstrations of friendship.

Ay, poison indeed! but not in the sense poor Matty meant. Nor would she accept the other turnover or the ginger-cakes, or look at or speak to Theodore; but sat gazing afar off as if into vacancy, her face perfectly expressionless, although Tony, now completely won over, sat eating his with the utmost gusto.

Meanwhile Theodore, having turned over the whole contents of his pockets, talked in a friendly way, leading gradually up to the matter in his mind; although he was afraid to linger long, lest Johnny should return, or some one come by who would wonder at seeing amicable relations established between himself and Tony.

“Been makin’ good sales to-day?” he asked at length; but this put Tony on his guard again at once.

“Now you let peanuts alone; they ain’t none of your business,” he said, his mouth full of ginger-cake.

“I ain’t goin’ to touch your peanuts,” said the older boy. “I just asked. Jim’s makin’ an uncommon good thing out of this peanut-stand with you and Matty to run it for him, an’ I hear you’re doin’ first-rate. But don’t I know something about Jim!”

“So do I, lots,” answered Tony, as well as he could speak.

“You don’t know what I know; and Jim wouldn’t want you to,” said the bad boy. “It’s his secret, and a monstrous one, too; but I know it, and I’m goin’ to tell it, too.”

“I sha’n’t listen to it,” said Tony.

“Ho! I don’t want you to. It’s not you I mean to tell,” said Theodore. “It’s the police.”

“Jim ain’t done nothin’ for the perlice,” said Tony furiously. “The perlice likes him, an’ wouldn’t do nothin’ to him.”

“Ha! You wait and see,” said Theodore; “they’ve got to when I tell ’em. It’s a secret on Jim an’ one of his young ladies, Miss Amy there, that gives Matty her clo’s an’ things. He’ll feel awful to have himself an’ Miss Amy told on, and the police will go for ’em when they know it; but nothin’ ain’t goin’ to put me off talkin’ without I was paid for it, as much as five dollars, too.”

“What they done?” asked Tony, curiosity and alarm for his friends getting the better of his aversion to discuss the subject with Theodore.

Theodore came nearer, and making Tony promise with the most solemn asseverations that he would not repeat, and would not suffer Matty to repeat, to any one, what he told him, said,

“They had some poisoning done, round to Mr. Livingstone’s, an’ Jim and Miss Amy was mixed up in it. They did the poisoning; but ’twas found out in time, an’ their folks hushed it up. But I know it, an’ I’m goin’ to set the police on them unless some one would make it worth my while not to. Five dollars would buy me off; but there’s no one I know of, would give me five dollars, so I’m goin’ to tell.”

Street Arab though he was, with his wits sharpened into preternatural acuteness in some respects, in others Tony was guileless and easily imposed upon; and for a moment he stared at Theodore in dismay, but presently doubt and suspicion again obtained the upper hand.

“I don’t take no stock in that,” he said; “it’s a lie, I know. I’ll ask Jim himself.”

“If you let on to him what I’ve told you, I’ll tell the police for certain, whether or no,” said Theodore; “but if anybody was to say they’d give me five dollars, an’ you don’t tell Jim, I’ll never say a word.”

And he walked away, leaving his words to take what effect they might. That they had already taken effect, he saw, as Matty, who had not spoken a word all this time, drew the beautiful, shining tresses in front of her, and passed her skinny little hands lovingly over them. Tony stood staring stupidly after him for a moment, then burst out at him with a torrent of abuse and threats which Theodore did not deign to answer.

That evening about dusk, when Tony and Matty came to our house to render up the day’s account to Jim, after they had settled business, Tony asked in a mysterious whisper, and half as if he feared to put the question,

“Jim, tell us; has you got a secret you don’t want any one to know?”

By the light of the gas-jet, beneath which they stood, in the basement hall, Tony saw the color rush in a flood to Jim’s face, and an angry light came into his eye, as he answered roughly,

“’Tain’t none of your business if I have; you let my secrets alone.”

Tony was a little frightened, but he persisted,

“But tell us; did you and yer young lady, her what’s good to us, did you once get mixed up wid pisenin’ some folks, an’ it was kept dark so’s the ”

“Now you shut up an’ clear out quick, you little rascal!” shouted Jim furiously. “If you come Paul Pryin’ round here, a-tryin’ to find out my secrets, me an’ you will fall out, an’ you’ll get no more help from Miss Amy nor me. Clear!”

But Tony, alas! was answered; and the crestfallen little cripple shuffled out from the presence of the offended head of the peanut firm as fast as possible; Jim putting his head out of the door, and shouting after them, still in the most irate tones,

“Now you let me an’ Miss Amy an’ all my folks alone, or there’ll be trouble, sure!” then slammed the door after them.

In silence they went up the street, but not immediately home: they had other business to attend to first.