What Danny said proved right. As soon as Rosie's immediate family and
friends heard of the project, they gave her every encouragement. Little
Jack lent her his last Christmas money-box—one of those tin banks whose
opening is supposed to be burglarproof against the seducing attractions
of all hatpins and buttonhooks except those employed by its rightful
owner—and Mrs. O'Brien suggested at once that the old wardrobe upstairs
would be the place of greatest safety for the bank.
"You can get into it whenever you like, Rosie dear, for you know
yourself where the key's to be found."
It might be argued that every one else in the family knew where the key
was to be found, for it was an open secret that its hiding-place was
under the foot of the washstand. Nevertheless, it was an accepted
tradition that anything in the wardrobe was under lock and key and
therefore safe. So, with unbounded confidence, Rosie slipped her first
week's wages into Jack's money-box and carefully locked the old
wardrobe.
George Riley, the boarder, was the first to make a handsome
contribution.
"Do you know, Rosie," he said, "here you are carrying my supper up to
the cars every night and I've never said anything more than 'Thank you.'
I just tell you I'm ashamed of myself! After this I'm going to pay you a
nickel a week regular."
"Aw now, Jarge, you won't do any such thing!" Rosie shook her head
vigorously. "You can't afford it! And besides, Jarge, I just love to
carry your supper up to the cars, honest I do!"
"Of course you do! And why? 'Cause you're my girl!" George turned
Rosie's face up and gave her a hearty kiss. "Now you'll be making
twenty-five cents a week regular. Here's a nickel for last week."
Twenty-five cents a week and two good sure jobs to one who, but a few
days before, was nothing but a penniless creature dependent on any
chance windfall! Rosie hugged herself in delighted amazement. She even
bragged a little to her friend Janet McFadden.
"Why, Janet, once you know how to do it, making money's just as easy as
falling off a log! Look at me: My papers don't take me more'n half an
hour in the afternoon and carrying Jarge's supper-pail up to the cars is
just fun. And every Saturday night twenty-five cents, if you please!"
Janet said "Oh!" with a rising inflection and "Oh!" with a falling
inflection: "Oh! Oh!"
"And besides that, if I hadn't my paper route I'd have to take care of
Geraldine all afternoon. Don't you see?"
"You would indeed, Rosie, I know you would."
Rosie looked at her friend thoughtfully. "Say, Janet, why don't you get
a job? Of course, I'll lend you my skates, but if we both had a pair we
could go to Boulevard Place together. Wouldn't that be fun?"
Janet cleared her throat apologetically. "Do you think Terry would give
me a job, Rosie?"
Hardly. Though he did employ Rosie, Terence was scarcely in position to
employ every needy female that might apply to him. Rosie spoke kindly
but firmly:
"No, Janet, I don't believe Terry can take on any more girls. When I get
my skates, though, I tell you what I'll do: I'll let you 'sub' for me
sometimes. Yes. On the afternoons I go to skate on Boulevard Place, I'll
let you deliver my papers. I'll pay you three cents a day. Three cents
ain't much but, if you save 'em real hard, they count up—really they
do. If you 'sub' for me eight different times then you'll have
twenty-four cents. I told you, didn't I, that twenty-five cents is
what's coming in to me now every week regular?"
Yes, Rosie had already specified the amount many times but Janet, being
a devoted friend, exclaimed with unabated enthusiasm: "You don't say so,
Rosie! Well, I think that's just grand!"
Janet was right. It is fine to have an income that permits one to enjoy
the good things of life. Without a touch of envy Rosie could now view
the rich Jews and Protestants as they skimmed the smooth surface of
Boulevard Place. She, too, would soon be rolling along as well skated as
the best of them. The time was not far distant when, hearing the soft
whirr of the ball-bearings, they would look at her with a new respect
and no longer call out "Mucker!" the moment her back was turned.
This was the happy side of saving. There was, however, another side, and
to ignore it would be to ignore the effect upon character which any
effort as conscious as saving must produce. In simple innocence Rosie
had started out supposing that all that was necessary toward saving was
to have something savable. She soon discovered her mistake. The prime
essential in saving was not, after all, the possession of a tidy little
sum coming in at regular intervals, so much as the ability to keep that
sum intact. That is to say, for the sake of this one Big Thing, that
looms up faint but powerfully attractive on the distant horizon, you
must do without all the Little Things that make daily life so pleasant.
Alas, once you begin saving, you may no longer heedlessly sip the joys
of the moment taking no thought for the morrow. Saving involves thought
for the morrow first of all! In the old days when she hadn't a penny,
Rosie had somehow managed to enjoy an occasional ice-cream cone, or a
moving picture show, or a cent's worth of good candy. Now, on the other
hand, with money in the bank, these and all like indulgences were
forbidden. She was saving!
If for a moment she tried to forget the wearisome task to which she had
publicly dedicated herself, some one was always at hand to remind her of
it and to rescue her, as it were, from her weaker self. For instance, if
she even hinted of thirst in the neighbourhood of a root-beer stand,
Janet McFadden would turn pale with fright and hurriedly drag her off,
imploring her to remember that, once she had her skates, she could have
all the root-beer she wanted. Yes, of course, but Rosie sometimes felt
that she wanted it when she wanted it and not at some far-off time when
she would, no doubt, be too old and decrepit to enjoy it.
The experience began to give Rosie a clue to one of those mysteries of
conduct which had long puzzled her. She had never stood in front of the
glowing posters of a picture show, saying to herself or to any one that
chanced to be with her: "I tell you what: If I had a nickel, I bet I
know what I'd do with it!" nor paused before a bakery shop or a candy
store, that she hadn't seen other people—men, women, and children—with
eyes as full of desire as her own. What used to amaze her was that many
of these people, she was absolutely sure, had money in their pockets.
Heretofore, in her ignorance of life, she had supposed that, to possess
yourself of anything you wanted, was a simple enough matter provided you
had money in your pocket—or in your bank, which is the same thing. What
a mistake she had made! How she had misjudged those poor creatures who,
in spite of their jingling pockets, so often turned regretful backs upon
the pleasures of life. Rosie understood now. Money in their pockets had
nothing to do with it for—they were saving.
Unknown even to themselves they were all members of a mystic
brotherhood, actuated by the same impulse, undergoing the same
sacrifices for some ultimate benefit. Look where she would, she saw them
plainly: Miss Hattie Graydon, Ellen's fashionable friend, saving for an
outing in Jersey; Janet McFadden's poor mother always saving for a new
wash-boiler; George Riley saving to give himself a good start on his
father's farm; and now, the newest recruit to their ranks, Rosie
herself, saving for ball-bearing roller skates.
"I'd just love to go with you! If there's anything I do enjoy, it's a
matinée. But I can't. I got to have a new hat this spring."
"I'd like to lend it to you, Charley, the worst ever, but I don't see
how I can. I got to save every cent this year for payments on the
house."
"Waffles nuthin'! I ain't goin' a-spend a cent till I got enough money
for a new baseball mitt!"
They were the things Rosie had been hearing all her life but never
until now had she grasped what they meant. Think of it, oh, think of
it—the heroic self-denial that masks itself in commonplaces like these!
Rosie wondered if the others, too, had their moments of weakness.
Weren't there perhaps times when George Riley sighed over the shabbiness
of his clothes, realizing that, if only he were a little sportier, Ellen
might not scorn him so utterly?
Theoretically practice makes easy, but Rosie found that the practice of
self-denial, instead of growing easier, became harder as time went by.
The week she had a dollar ninety-five in her bank, a Dog and Pony Show
pitched its tent in a field which Rosie had to pass every afternoon on
her paper route. She thought the sight of that tent would kill her
before the week was over. The only things talked about at school were
Skippo, the monkey that jumped the rope, Fifi, the dancing poodle, and
Don, the pony, who shook hands with people in the front row. Afternoon
admission was ten cents but, nevertheless, there were people who
attended daily.
Even Janet McFadden, valiant soul that she was, grew pale and wan under
the strain. "Of course, though, Rosie," she said, "you wouldn't have
time to go even if some one was to give you a ticket."
This was Friday, so Rosie was able to answer: "I could go tomorrow
afternoon, Janet. You know the Saturday matinée begins at two instead of
half-past three. That'd get it over by four. I could ask you or
somebody to get my papers for me and meet me at the tent at four
o'clock. Then I'd be only a few minutes late."
Janet made hopeless assent. "Yes, I could get them for you all right.
And if some one was to give me a ticket, Tom Sullivan would get them for
you—I know he would. Tom would do anything for you, Rosie."
Tom was Janet's red-haired cousin and a flame of Rosie's.
"Yes, Janet, I suppose Tom would. But there's no use talking about
it.... Now if only I could just take——"
Rosie broke off and Janet, understanding her thought, murmured hastily:
"No, no, Rosie! Of course you can't take any of that!"
Janet was right. Rosie could not possibly raid her own bank. Too many
eyes were upon her. Yet all she needed was a quarter: ten cents for
herself, ten for Janet, and five for her small brother. She couldn't go
without Janet and Jack and, as she hadn't a cent anyhow, it was just as
easy to plan the expenditure of a quarter as of a dime.
She wondered idly if there could by some happy chance be more in her
bank than she supposed. She hadn't counted her savings for nearly a
week. There wasn't much likelihood that a dime or a quarter or a nickel
had escaped her count, but perhaps now—... There was one chance in a
thousand, for Rosie was not very strong in addition. At any rate, after
supper she would slip up to the wardrobe and, with a bent hairpin, make
investigations. A dollar ninety-five was all she was responsible for to
the world at large. If her bank contained more, she could appropriate
the surplus and no one be the wiser.
Supper afforded one excitement.
"Oh, lookee!" Jack suddenly cried, pointing an excited finger at Ellen.
It was the period of pompadour and false hair and Rosie and Terence,
following Jack's finger, saw a new cluster of shiny black curls in
Ellen's already elaborate coiffure.
"Get on to the curls, Rosie," Terence remarked facetiously. "Lord, ain't
we stylish!"
Ellen made no remark but seemed a little flurried.
"Shame on you, Terry!" Mrs. O'Brien expostulated. "Talkin' so of your
own sister! Don't you know if Ellen's to be a stenog, she's got to be
careful of her appearance? All the young ladies at the college are
wearing curls."
Terence answered shortly: "She can wear all the curls she wants as soon
as she's able to pay for them. But I tell you one thing, Ma: you needn't
think you're going to get me to pay for them, because I won't. She tried
to work me for them last week and I told her I wouldn't."
Ellen regarded her brother distantly. "You make me tired, Terence
O'Brien. When you're asked to pay for these curls it'll be time for you
to squeal."
"Are they paid for already?"
"Of course they're paid for already. Do you think I can get curls on
tick?"
Terence's incredulity changed to suspicion. Turning to his mother he
demanded: "Did you give her the two dollars you begged from me for the
baby's food?"
Mrs. O'Brien spread out distracted hands. "Why, Terry lad, of course I
didn't! Rosie went to the drug-store herself with the money, didn't you,
Rosie?"
Yes, Rosie had, but even this did not satisfy Terry.
"Well, anyhow, I bet she's playing crooked somewhere!"
Ellen disdained to answer and Rosie remarked: "I'd rather spend my money
on skates than on old curls."
Ellen looked at her kindly. "They say skates are going out of style,
Rosie."
Rosie folded her hands complacently. "I don't care whether they're going
out or coming in. I don't like 'em because they're fashionable but
because I like 'em. If the Boulevard Placers didn't have one pair I'd
want to go up there by myself and skate by myself just the same. I love
roller skates! And, what's more, by the time vacation comes I'll have
the finest pair of ball-bearing skates in town! And vacation, mind you,
comes at the end of next week!"
Terence nodded a cautious approval. "You're that close to the finish,
are you, Rosie?"
"Sure I am. Tomorrow night when I get paid I'll have two twenty and, by
the end of next week, if I can manage to scrape up an extra nickel, I'll
have two fifty exact."
Mrs. O'Brien fluttered her hands nervously. "I dunno about all this
skatin', Rosie dear. I dunno if it's healthy to jump around so."
Rosie smiled superiorly. "I don't jump around. I know how to skate."
A few moments later Ellen excused herself from her usual evening duties
on the plea that her friend, Hattie Graydon, had invited her out. So
Rosie had to wipe the supper dishes as well as wash them before she
could slip upstairs for the purpose of counting her savings.
She found the wardrobe key in its usual place and the little bank where
she had put it, hidden beneath her mother's Sunday hat. She reached for
it and lifted it up and then, with a loud cry, she clutched it hard and
shook it with all her might.
"Ma! Ma!" she screamed, flying wildly downstairs. "My money! Some one's
taken all my money!"
"Ssh!" Mrs. O'Brien implored. "Ye'll be wakin' Geraldine!"
For once Rosie heeded not the warning. "I tell you my money's gone! Some
one stole it! Listen here!" She was weeping distractedly and waving the
empty bank aloft. "There's not a cent left! And, Terry, look here how
they took it!"
The thief had not even had the grace to use a hairpin, but had calmly
bent back the opening slit.
Terence looked at his mother sternly. "Ma, who took Rosie's money?"
Mrs. O'Brien squirmed uncomfortably. "Now, Terry lad, how do I know who
took it? But I do know this: whoever it was that took it only borrowed
it and Rosie'll get paid back."
"Paid back!" wept Rosie. "Don't talk to me about getting paid back in
this house! I guess I know!"
With a determined eye Terence held his mother's wavering attention.
"Now, Ma, you know very well who took that money and I want you to tell
me."
"Why, Terry lad, how you talk!" Mrs. O'Brien turned her head to listen,
in hopes, apparently, that the baby would require her presence. "But I
will say one thing, Terry: Ye know yirself a young girl, if she goes
out, has to keep up appearances."
Terence nodded grimly. "So it was Ellen, was it? I thought so."
"Ellen," Rosie repeated in a dazed tone. Then her body grew tense, her
eyes blazed. "Terry, I know! Those curls! I bet anything it was those
curls!"
Mrs. O'Brien made no denial and Rosie, dropping her head on the table,
wept her heart out.
"Terry, Terry, what do you know about that! And after the way I been
working hard and saving every cent for two whole months! Just think of
it! And you know yourself the fuss she always made about my selling
papers at all! It's disgraceful for me to sell papers because I'm a
girl, but it ain't disgraceful for her to go steal all my money and buy
curls!... And I can't do nuthin'! If she was a nigger, I could have her
arrested but, because she's my own sister, I can't do nuthin'! Oh, how I
hate her, how I hate her!..."
Mrs. O'Brien sighed unhappily. "But, Rosie dear, Ellen'll be paying you
back as soon as she gets a job. She promised me faithfully she would.
You see, she'll soon be going around to them offices now and she feels
she ought to be lookin' her best. Oh, you'll be gettin' back your money
all right! Why, nowadays a good stenog gets ten dollars a week up!"
Terence cut his mother off sharply. "Aw, forget it! You can't fool Rosie
with guff like that! I tell you, Ellen's nuthin' but a low-down crook
and it's your fault, too, for encouraging her!"
"But, Terence lad, what could I do? I thried to dissuade her, but ye
know yirself how set she is once she gets an idea into her head."
Yes, Terence and Rosie both knew and they knew, likewise, their mother's
helplessness in her hands. With no further words they could easily
imagine just what had taken place. Mrs. O'Brien had, no doubt, tried
hard to protect Rosie's interests. She could always be depended on to
protect the interests of an absent child. Her present attitude was an
evidence of this, for now she was turned about seeking to defend Ellen
because Ellen was absent.
A wail from upstairs brought her ineffectual excuses to a close and,
with a "Whisht! The baby!" she fled.
Rosie, crushed and miserable, wept on. Terence put an awkward hand on
her shoulder.
"Say, Rosie, I'm awful sorry, honest I am. I wish I could give you a
quarter, but I can't this week. They've cleaned me out. Here's a nickel,
though."
Rosie did not want the nickel; at that moment she did not want anything;
she took it, however, because Terry wished her to.
"Thanks, Terry. It wasn't your fault. You're not a sneak and a thief.
I—I'm glad some of my relations are honest."
Little Jack, who had been listening gravely, snuggled up with a sudden
suggestion: "Say, Rosie, if you want me to, I'll kick her in the shins
when she comes in."
Rosie wiped her eyes sadly. "No, Jackie, I don't see how that'll do any
good."
"Do you want me to spit in her eye?"
Rosie gave Jack a tight hug, for his sympathy was sweet. Then she shook
her head reprovingly. "You mustn't talk like that, Jackie, and you
mustn't do things like that, either. You don't want to be a mucker, do
you?"
For this once Jack thought that perhaps he did, but, when Rosie
insisted, he promised to behave.
From babyhood he had been Rosie's special charge, so now, when the time
came, she took him upstairs and saw him safely to bed. Then she herself
slipped down to the front porch and there on the steps, in the dark
electric shadow, she waited for her friend, George Riley.
"I don't want to fight! I'm glad it's not ladylike to
fight, it scares me so!" [Page 12.]
