Bessie’s Doll
by
Tommy Puffer, sauntering up the street, stopped to look at Miss Octavia’s geraniums. Tommy never could help stopping to look at Miss Octavia’s flowers, much as he hated Miss Octavia. Today they were certainly worth looking at. Miss Octavia had set them all out on her verandah–rows upon rows of them, overflowing down the steps in waves of blossom and colour. Miss Octavia’s geraniums were famous in Arundel, and she was very proud of them. But it was her garden which was really the delight of her heart. Miss Octavia always had the prettiest garden in Arundel, especially as far as annuals were concerned. Just now it was like faith–the substance of things hoped for. The poppies and nasturtiums and balsams and morning glories and sweet peas had been sown in the brown beds on the lawn, but they had not yet begun to come up.
Tommy was still feasting his eyes on the geraniums when Miss Octavia herself came around the corner of the house. Her face darkened the minute she saw Tommy. Most people’s did. Tommy had the reputation of being a very bad, mischievous boy; he was certainly very poor and ragged, and Miss Octavia disapproved of poverty and rags on principle. Nobody, she argued, not even a boy of twelve, need be poor and ragged if he is willing to work.
“Here, you, get away out of this,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to have you hanging over my palings.”
“I ain’t hurting your old palings,” retorted Tommy sullenly. “I was jist a-looking at the flowers.”
“Yes, and picking out the next one to throw a stone at,” said Miss Octavia sarcastically. “It was you who threw that stone and broke my big scarlet geranium clear off the other day.”
“It wasn’t–I never chucked a stone at your flowers,” said Tommy.
“Don’t tell me any falsehoods, Tommy Puffer. It was you. Didn’t I catch you firing stones at my cat a dozen times?”
“I might have fired ’em at an old cat, but I wouldn’t tech a flower,” avowed Tommy boldly–brazenly, Miss Octavia thought.
“You clear out of this or I’ll make you,” she said warningly.
Tommy had had his ears boxed by Miss Octavia more than once. He had no desire to have the performance repeated, so he stuck his tongue out at Miss Octavia and then marched up the street with his hands in his pockets, whistling jauntily.
“He’s the most impudent brat I ever saw in my life,” muttered Miss Octavia wrathfully. There was a standing feud between her and all the Arundel small boys, but Tommy was her special object of dislike.
Tommy’s heart was full of wrath and bitterness as he marched away. He hated Miss Octavia; he wished something would happen to every one of her flowers; he knew it was Ned Williams who had thrown that stone, and he hoped Ned would throw some more and smash all the flowers. So Tommy raged along the street until he came to Mr. Blacklock’s store, and in the window of it he saw something that put Miss Octavia and her disagreeable remarks quite out of his tow-coloured head.
This was nothing more or less than a doll. Now, Tommy was not a judge of dolls and did not take much interest in them, but he felt quite sure that this was a very fine one. It was so big; it was beautifully dressed in blue silk, with a ruffled blue silk hat; it had lovely long golden hair and big brown eyes and pink cheeks; and it stood right up in the showcase and held out its hands winningly.
“Gee, ain’t it a beauty!” said Tommy admiringly. “It looks ‘sif it was alive, and it’s as big as a baby. I must go an’ bring Bessie to see it.”
Tommy at once hurried away to the shabby little street where what he called “home” was. Tommy’s home was a very homeless-looking sort of place. It was the smallest, dingiest, most slatternly house on a street noted for its dingy and slatternly houses. It was occupied by a slatternly mother and a drunken father, as well as by Tommy; and neither the father nor the mother took much notice of Tommy except to scold or nag him. So it is hardly to be wondered at if Tommy was the sort of boy who was frowned upon by respectable citizens.