CHAPTER IV.
IN TROUBLE.
When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman'sshilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given tohim since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against theshilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there wasnothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, itwas white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty.The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle verybadly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he couldscarcely hobble upstairs.
On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of PatFinnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to hismother that Tom had arrived.
Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any renthe was not afraid of her.
She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what shehad to say.
"Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded,with a very strong Irish brogue.
"Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. Iowes yer nothink."
"Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have theimperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lentto yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes."
At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectlyhow, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother ashilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid backsome time ago.
"I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, buta great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke.
Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple.
"Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tislies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. Imust have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes."
With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slammingthe door behind her.
"Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "canyer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?"
"Yer knows I can't," answered Tom.
"Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan."
"I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as hispainful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs.
"Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink."
With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, andin a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, batteredshilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up atTom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small,deep-set eyes.
"Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she saysa thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not theghost of a hope. But see yere--this is my h'own. I got it--no matter 'ow Igot it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothinkbut a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling forh'old Trusty, Tom."
But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face.
"Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his mightand main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. Thefalse strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabledhim to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, thepoor little sweeper nearly fainted.