WHEN Tig Braddock came to Nora Finnegan he was red-headed and freckled,
and, truth to tell, he remained with these features to the end of his
life—a life prolonged by a lucky, if somewhat improbable, incident, as
you shall hear.
Tig had shuffled off his parents as saurians, of some sorts, do their
skins. During the temporary absence from home of his mother, who was at
the bridewell, and the more extended vacation of his father, who, like
Villon, loved the open road and the life of it, Tig, who was not a
well-domesticated animal, wandered away. The humane society never heard
of him, the neighbors did not miss him, and the law took no cognizance
of this detached citizen—this lost pleiad. Tig would have sunk into
that melancholy which is attendant upon hunger,—the only form of
despair which babyhood knows,—if he had not wandered across the path of
Nora Finnegan. Now Nora shone with steady brightness in her orbit,
and no sooner had Tig entered her atmosphere, than he was warmed and
comforted. Hunger could not live where Nora was. The basement room where
she kept house was redolent with savory smells; and in the stove in her
front room—which was also her bedroom—there was a bright fire glowing
when fire was needed.
Nora went out washing for a living. But she was not a poor washerwoman.
Not at all. She was a washerwoman triumphant. She had perfect health, an
enormous frame, an abounding enthusiasm for life, and a rich abundance
of professional pride. She believed herself to be the best washer of
white clothes she had ever had the pleasure of knowing, and the value
placed upon her services, and her long connection with certain families
with large weekly washings, bore out this estimate of herself—an
estimate which she never endeavored to conceal.
Nora had buried two husbands without being unduly depressed by the
fact. The first husband had been a disappointment, and Nora winked at
Providence when an accident in a tunnel carried him off—that is to
say, carried the husband off. The second husband was not so much of a
disappointment as a surprise. He developed ability of a literary order,
and wrote songs which sold and made him a small fortune. Then he ran
away with another woman. The woman spent his fortune, drove him to
dissipation, and when he was dying he came back to Nora, who received
him cordially, attended him to the end, and cheered his last hours by
singing his own songs to him. Then she raised a headstone recounting his
virtues, which were quite numerous, and refraining from any reference to
those peculiarities which had caused him to be such a surprise.
Only one actual chagrin had ever nibbled at the sound heart of Nora
Finnegan—a cruel chagrin, with long, white teeth, such as rodents have!
She had never held a child to her breast, nor laughed in its eyes; never
bathed the pink form of a little son or daughter; never felt a tugging
of tiny hands at her voluminous calico skirts! Nora had burnt many
candles before the statue of the blessed Virgin without remedying this
deplorable condition. She had sent up unavailing prayers—she had, at
times, wept hot tears of longing and loneliness. Sometimes in her sleep
she dreamed that a wee form, warm and exquisitely soft, was pressed
against her firm body, and that a hand with tiniest pink nails crept
within her bosom. But as she reached out to snatch this delicious little
creature closer, she woke to realize a barren woman's grief, and turned
herself in anguish on her lonely pillow.
So when Tig came along, accompanied by two curs, who had faithfully
followed him from his home, and when she learned the details of his
story, she took him in, curs and all, and, having bathed the three of
them, made them part and parcel of her home. This was after the demise
of the second husband, and at a time when Nora felt that she had done
all a woman could be expected to do for Hymen.
Tig was a preposterous baby. The curs were preposterous curs. Nora had
always been afflicted with a surplus amount of laughter—laughter which
had difficulty in attaching itself to anything, owing to the lack of the
really comic in the surroundings of the poor. But with a red-headed and
freckled baby boy and two trick dogs in the house, she found a good and
sufficient excuse for her hilarity, and would have torn the cave where
echo lies with her mirth, had that cave not been at such an immeasurable
distance from the crowded neighborhood where she lived.
At the age of four Tig went to free kindergarten; at the age of six he
was in school, and made three grades the first year and two the next. At
fifteen he was graduated from the high school and went to work as
errand boy in a newspaper office, with the fixed determination to make a
journalist of himself.
Nora was a trifle worried about his morals when she discovered his
intellect, but as time went on, and Tig showed no devotion for any woman
save herself, and no consciousness that there were such things as bad
boys or saloons in the world, she began to have confidence. All of his
earnings were brought to her. Every holiday was spent with her. He told
her his secrets and his aspirations. He admitted that he expected to
become a great man, and, though he had not quite decided upon the nature
of his career,—saving, of course, the makeshift of journalism,—it was
not unlikely that he would elect to be a novelist like—well, probably
Hope, always a charming creature, put on her most alluring smiles for
Tig, and he made her his mistress, and feasted on the light of her eyes.
Moreover, he was chaperoned, so to speak, by Nora Finnegan, who listened
to every line Tig wrote, and made a mighty applause, and filled him up
with good Irish stew, many colored as the coat of Joseph, and pungent
with the inimitable perfume of "the rose of the cellar." Nora Finnegan
understood the onion, and used it lovingly. She perceived the difference
between the use and abuse of this pleasant and obvious friend of hungry
man, and employed it with enthusiasm, but discretion. Thus it came
about that whoever ate of her dinners, found the meals of other cooks
strangely lacking in savor, and remembered with regret the soups
and stews, the broiled steaks, and stuffed chickens of the woman who
appreciated the onion.
When Nora Finnegan came home with a cold one day, she took it in such a
jocular fashion that Tig felt not the least concern about her, and when,
two days later, she died of pneumonia, he almost thought, at first, that
it must be one of her jokes. She had departed with decision, such as had
characterized every act of her life, and had made as little trouble for
others as possible. When she was dead the community had the opportunity
of discovering the number of her friends. Miserable children with faces
which revealed two generations of hunger, homeless boys with vicious
countenances, miserable wrecks of humanity, women with bloated faces,
came to weep over Nora's bier, and to lay a flower there, and to scuttle
away, more abjectly lonely than even sin could make them. If the cats
and the dogs, the sparrows and horses to which she had shown kindness,
could also have attended her funeral, the procession would have been,
from a point of numbers, one of the most imposing the city had ever
known. Tig used up all their savings to bury her, and the next week, by
some peculiar fatality, he had a falling out with the night editor of
his paper, and was discharged. This sank deep into his sensitive
soul, and he swore he would be an underling no longer—which foolish
resolution was directly traceable to his hair, the color of which, it
will be recollected, was red.
Not being an underling, he was obliged to make himself into something
else, and he recurred passionately to his old idea of becoming a
novelist. He settled down in Nora's basement rooms, went to work on
a battered type-writer, did his own cooking, and occasionally pawned
something to keep him in food. The environment was calculated to further
impress him with the idea of his genius.
A certain magazine offered an alluring prize for a short story, and Tig
wrote one, and rewrote it, making alterations, revisions, annotations,
and interlineations which would have reflected credit upon Honoré;
Balzac himself. Then he wrought all together, with splendid brevity and
dramatic force,—Tig's own words,—and mailed the same. He was convinced
he would get the prize. He was just as much convinced of it as Nora
Finnegan would have been if she had been with him.
So he went about doing more fiction, taking no especial care of himself,
and wrapt in rosy dreams, which, not being warm enough for the weather,
permitted him to come down with rheumatic fever.
He lay alone in his room and suffered such torments as the condemned
and rheumatic know, depending on one of Nora's former friends to come in
twice a day and keep up the fire for him. This friend was aged ten, and
looked like a sparrow who had been in a cyclone, but somewhere inside
his bones was a wit which had spelled out devotion. He found fuel for
the cracked stove, somehow or other. He brought it in a dirty sack which
he carried on his back, and he kept warmth in Tig's miserable body.
Moreover, he found food of a sort—cold, horrible bits often, and Tig
wept when he saw them, remembering the meals Nora had served him.
Tig was getting better, though he was conscious of a weak heart and a
lamenting stomach, when, to his amazement, the Sparrow ceased to visit
him. Not for a moment did Tig suspect desertion. He knew that only
something in the nature of an act of Providence, as the insurance
companies would designate it, could keep the little bundle of bones away
from him. As the days went by, he became convinced of it, for no Sparrow
came, and no coal lay upon the hearth. The basement window fortunately
looked toward the south, and the pale April sunshine was beginning
to make itself felt, so that the temperature of the room was not
unbearable. But Tig languished; sank, sank, day by day, and was kept
alive only by the conviction that the letter announcing the award of the
thousand-dollar prize would presently come to him. One night he reached a
place, where, for hunger and dejection, his mind wandered, and he seemed
to be complaining all night to Nora of his woes. When the chill dawn
came, with chittering of little birds on the dirty pavement, and an
agitation of the scrawny willow "pussies," he was not able to lift his
hand to his head. The window before his sight was but "a glimmering
square." He said to himself that the end must be at hand. Yet it was
cruel, cruel, with fame and fortune so near! If only he had some food,
he might summon strength to rally—just for a little while! Impossible
that he should die! And yet without food there was no choice.
Dreaming so of Nora's dinners, thinking how one spoonful of a stew such
as she often compounded would now be his salvation, he became conscious
of the presence of a strong perfume in the room. It was so familiar
that it seemed like a sub-consciousness, yet he found no name for this
friendly odor for a bewildered minute or two. Little by little, however,
it grew upon him, that it was the onion—that fragrant and kindly bulb
which had attained its apotheosis in the cuisine of Nora Finnegan of
sacred memory. He opened his languid eyes, to see if, mayhap, the plant
had not attained some more palpable materialization.
Behold, it was so! Before him, in a brown earthen dish,—a most familiar
dish,—was an onion, pearly white, in placid seas of gravy, smoking and
delectable. With unexpected strength he raised himself, and reached for
the dish, which floated before him in a halo made by its own steam. It
moved toward him, offered a spoon to his hand, and as he ate he heard
about the room the rustle of Nora Finnegan's starched skirts, and now
and then a faint, faint echo of her old-time laugh—such an echo as one
may find of the sea in the heart of a shell.
The noble bulb disappeared little by little before his voracity, and in
contentment greater than virtue can give, he sank back upon his pillow
Two hours later the postman knocked at the door, and receiving no
answer, forced his way in. Tig, half awake, saw him enter with no
surprise. He felt no surprise when he put a letter in his hand bearing
the name of the magazine to which he had sent his short story. He was
not even surprised, when, tearing it open with suddenly alert hands, he
found within the check for the first prize—the check he had expected.
All that day, as the April sunlight spread itself upon his floor, he
felt his strength grow. Late in the afternoon the Sparrow came back,
paler, and more bony than ever, and sank, breathing hard, upon the
floor, with his sack of coal.
"I've been sick," he said, trying to smile. "Terrible sick, but I come
as soon as I could."
"Build up the fire," cried Tig, in a voice so strong it made the Sparrow
start as if a stone had struck him. "Build up the fire, and forget you
are sick. For, by the shade of Nora Finnegan, you shall be hungry no