99 Linwood Street
A Christmas Story
A gray morning, the deck wet, the iron all beaded with
frost, all the longshoremen in heavy pea-jackets or
cardigans, the whole ship in a bustle, and the favored
first-class passengers just leaving.
One sad-looking Irish girl stands with her knit hood
already spotted with the rime, and you cannot tell
whether those are tears which hang from her black
eyelashes or whether the fog is beginning to freeze
there. What you see is that the poor thing looks right
and left and up the pier and down the pier, and that in
the whole crowd--they all seem so selfish--she sees
nobody. Hundreds of people going and coming, pushing and
hauling, and Nora's big brother is not there, as he
promised to be and should be.
Mrs. Ohstrom, the motherly Swedish woman, who has
four children and ten tin cups and a great bed and five
trunks and a fatuous, feckless husband makes time,
between cousins and uncles and custom-house men and
sharpers, to run up every now and then to say that Nora
must not cry, that she must be easy, that she has spoken
to the master and the master has said they are three
hours earlier than they were expected. And all this
was so kindly meant and so kindly said that poor Nora
brushed the tears away, if they were tears, and thanked
her, though she did not understand one word that dear
Mrs. Ohstrom said to her. What is language, or what are
words, after all?
And the bright-buttoned, daintily dressed little
ship's doctor, whom poor Nora hardly knew in his shore
finery,--he made time to stop and tell her that the ship
was too early, and that she must not worry. Father, was
it, she was waiting for? "Oh, brother! Oh, he will be
sure to be here! Better sit down. Here is a chair.
Don't cry. I am afraid you had no breakfast. Take this
orange. It will cheer you up. I shall see you again."
Alas! the little doctor was swept away and forgot
Nora for a week, and she "was left lamenting."
For one hour went by, and two, and three. The
Swedish woman went, and the doctor went, and the girl
could see the captain go, and the mate that gave them
their orders every morning. The custom-house people
began to go. The cabs and other carriages for the gentry
had gone long before.
And poor Nora was left lamenting.
Then was it that that queer Salvation Army girl, with
a coal-scuttle for a bonnet, came up again. She had
smiled pleasantly two or three times before, and had
asked Nora to eat a bun. Poor Nora broke down and
cried heartily this time. But the other was patient and
kind, and said just what the others had said. Only she
did not go away. And she had the sense to ask if Nora
knew where the brother lived.
"Why, of course I do, miss. See, here is the
paper."
And the little soldier lass read it: "99 Linwood
Street, Boston."
"My poor child, what a pity you did not let us see it
before!"
Alas and alas! Nora's box was of the biggest. But
the army lass flinched at nothing.
An immense wagon, with two giant horses, loaded with
the most extraordinary chests which have been seen since
the days of the Vikings. Piled on the top were many
feather-beds, and on the top of the feather-beds a
Scandinavian matron. With Mike, the good-natured
teamster, who was at once captain and pilot of this
craft, the army lass had easily made her treaty, when he
was told the story. He was to carry Nora and her outfit
to the Linwood Street house after he had taken these
Swedes to theirs. "And indade it will not be farr, miss.
There 's a shorrt cut behind Egan's, if indade he did not
put up a tinimint house since I was that way." And with
new explanations to Nora that all was right, that indeed
it was better this way than it would have been had her
brother been called from his work, she was lifted,
without much consent of her own, to the driver's seat,
and her precious "box" was so placed that she could
rest her little feet upon it.
Nora had proudly confided to the friendly lass the
assurance that she had money, had even shown a crisp $2
bill which had been sent to her for exigencies.
But when the lass made the contract with Mike
Dermott, the good fellow said he should take Nora and her
box for the love of County Cork. "Indade, indade, I
don't take money from the like of her."
And so they started, with the Swedish men walking on
one side of the cart with their rifles, keeping a good
lookout for buffaloes and red Indians and grizzly bears,
as men landing in a new country which they were to
civilize. More sailing for there was the ferry to cross
to old Boston. Much waiting, for there was a broken-down
coal-wagon in Salutation Alley. Long conference between
Nora and Mike, in which he did all the talking and she
all the listening, as to home rule and Mr. McCarthy, and
what O'Brien thought of this, and what Cunniff thought of
that. Then an occasional question came in Swedish from
the matron above their heads, and was followed by a reply
in Celtic English from Mike, each wholly ignorant of the
views or wishes of the others. And occasionally the
escort of riflemen, after some particular attack of
chaff, in words which they fortunately did not
understand, looked up to their matron, controller, and
director, exchanged words with her, and then studied
the pavement again for tracks of buffalo. A long hour of
all this, the stone and brick of the city giving way to
green trees between the houses as they come to
Dorchester.
Poor Nora looks right and looks left, hoping to meet
her big brother. She begins to think she shall remember
him. Everybody else looks so different from Fermoy that
he must look like home.
But there is no brother.
There is at last a joyful cry as the Swedish matron
and the riflemen recognize familiar faces. And Mike
smiles gladly, and brings round the stout bays with a
twitch, so that the end of the cart comes square to the
sidewalk. Somebody produces a step-ladder, and the
Swedish matron, with her bird-cage in her hand, descends
in triumph. Much kissing, much shaking of hands, much
thanking of God, more or less reverent. Then the cords
are cut, beds flung down, the giant boxes lifted, the
sons of Anak only know how. The money covenanted for is
produced and paid, and Mike mounts lightly to Nora's
side.
"And now, Nora, my child, wherr is the paper? For in
two minutes we 'll soon be therr, now that this rubbish
is landed."
And he read on the precious paper, "John McLaughlin,
99 Linwood Street."
Strange to say, the paper said just what it had said
two hours before.
"And now, my dear child, we will be therr in ten
minutes, if only we can cross back of Egan's."
And although they could not cross back of Egan's, for
Egan had put up a "tinimint" house since Mike had passed
that way, yet in ten minutes Linwood Street had been
found. No. 99 at last revealed itself, between Nos. 7
and 2,--a great six-story wooden tinder-box, with
clothes-lines mysterious behind, open doors in front,
long passages running through, three doors on each side
of a passage, and the wondering heads of eleven women who
belonged to five different races and spoke in six
different languages appearing from their eleven windows,
as Mike and Nora and the two bays all stopped at one and
the same moment at the door.
Mike was already anxious about his time, for he was
to be at the custom-house an hour away or more at eleven
sharp. But he selected a certain Widow Flynn from the
eleven white-capped women; he explained to her briefly
that John McLaughlin was to be found; he told Nora for
the thirty-seventh time that all was right and that she
must not cry; he looked at his watch again, rather
anxiously, mounted his box, and drove swiftly away.
He was the one thread which bound Nora to this world.
And this thread broke before her eyes.
Mrs. Flynn affected to be cheerful. But she was not
cheerful. Mrs. Flynn was a prominent person in her
sodality. And well she knew that if any John
McLaughlin in those parts were expecting any sister from
home, she should know him and where he lived. Well she
knew, also, that John McLaughlin, the mason, was born in
Glasgow; that John McLaughlin, who is on the city work,
had all his family around him, and, most distinct of all,
she knew that no McLaughlin, sisterless or many-sistered,
lived in this beehive which she lived in, though it were
99 Linwood Street. Into her own cell of that beehive,
however, she took poor, sad, desolate Nora. Into the
hallway she bade the loafing neighbor boys bring Nora's
trunk; in a language Nora could hardly understand she
explained to her that all would be well as soon as the
policeman passed by. She sent Mary Murphy, who happened
to be at home from school, for a pint of milk, and so
compelled Nora to drink a cup of tea and to eat a biscuit
and a dropped egg, while they waited for the policeman.
Of course he knew of seven John McLaughlins. He even
went to the drug-store and looked in the Boston Directory
to find that there were there the names of sixty-one
more. But not one of them lived in Linwood Street, as
they all knew already. All the same Nora was charged not
to cry, to drink more tea and eat more bread and butter.
The "cop" said he would look in on three of the Johns
whom he knew, and intelligent boys now returning from
school were sent to the homes of the other four to
interrogate them as to any expected sister. Within an
hour, now nearly one o'clock, answers were received
from all the seven. No one of them expected chick or
child from Fermoy.
But the "cop" had a suggestion to make. His pocket
list of names of streets revealed another Linwood
Street--in Roxbury; not this one in Dorchester. Be it
known to unlearned readers, who in snug shelter in
Montana follow along this little tale, that Roxbury and
Dorchester are both parts of that large municipality
called Boston. Though no John McLaughlin was in the
directory for 99 Linwood Street, Roxbury, was not that
the objective? Poor Nora was questioned as to Roxbury.
She was sure she never heard of it.
But the clue was too good to be lost, and the
authority of the friendly "cop" was too great to be
resisted. He telephoned to the central office that Nora
McLaughlin, just from Ireland, had been found, in a
fashion, but that no one knew where to put her. Then he
stopped a milkman from Braintree, who delivered afternoon
milk for invalids.
Was he not going through Roxbury?
Of course he was.
Would he not take this lost child to 99 Linwood Street?
Of course he would. Milkmen, from their profession,
have hearts warm toward children.
Well, if he were to take her, he had better take her
trunk too.
To which illogical proposal the milkman
acceded--on the afternoon route there is so much
less milk to take than there is in the morning.
So Nora was lifted into the milk-wagon. In tears she
kissed good Mrs. Flynn. The boys and girls assembled to
bid her good-by, and even she had a hope for a few
moments that her troubles were at an end.
At 99 Linwood Street, Roxbury, they were preparing
for the Review Club.
The Review Club met once a fortnight at half-past two
o'clock at the house of one or another of the members.
They first arranged the little details of the business.
Then the hostess read, or made some one read, the scraps
which seemed most worthy in the reviews and magazines of
the last issues, and at four the husbands and brothers
and neighbors generally dropped in, and there was
afternoon tea.
"You are sure you have cream enough, Ellen?"
"Oh, yes, mum."
"All kinds of tea, you know, that which the Chinese
gentlemen sent, and be sure of the chocolate for Mrs.
Bunce."
"Indeed yes, mum."
"And let me know just before you bring up the hot
water." Doorbell rings. "There is Mrs. Walter now!"
No, it wasn't Mrs. Walter. She came three minutes
after. But before she came, Howells, the milkman, had
lifted Nora from her seat. As the snow fell fast on the
doorsteps, he carried her carefully up to the door,
and even by the time Ellen answered the bell he had the
heavy chest, dragging it over the snow by the stout rope
at one end.
Ellen was amazed to find this group instead of Mrs.
Walter. She called her mistress, who heard Howells's
realistic story with amazement, not to say amusement.
"You poor dear child!" she cried at once. "Come in
where it is dry! John McLaughlin? No, indeed! Who can
John McLaughlin be? Ellen, what is Mike's last name?"
Mike was the choreman, who made the furnace fire and
kept the sidewalk.
"Mike's name, mum? I don't know, mum. Mary will
know, mum."
And for the moment Ellen disappeared to find Mary.
"Never mind, never mind. Come in, you poor child.
You are very good to bring her, Mr. Howells, very good
indeed. We will take care of her. Is it going to
storm?"
Mr. Howells thought it was going to storm, and turned
to go away. At that moment Mrs. Walter arrived, the
first comer of the Review Club. And Nora's new hostess
had to turn to her guests, while Ellen in the last cares
for the afternoon table had to comfort Nora by spasms.
It was left for Margaret the chambermaid to pump out--or
to screw out, as you choose--the details of the story
from the poor frightened waif, who seemed more astray
than ever.
John McLaughlin? No. Nobody knew anything about
him. The last choreman was named McManus, but he went to
Ottawa three years ago!
And while the different facts and doubts were
canvassed in the kitchen, upstairs they settled the
Bulgarian question, the origin of the natives of
Tasmania, and the last questions about realism.
Only the mind of the lady of the house returned again
and again to questions as to the present residence of
John McLaughlin.
For in spite of the gathering snow and the prospect
of more, the members of the Review Club had followed fast
on Mrs. Walters and gathered in full force.
The hostess, though somewhat preoccupied, was
courteous and ready.
Only the functions of the club, as they went forward,
would be occasionally interrupted. Thus she would read
aloud "as in her private duty bound"--
"`The peasantry were excited, but were held in check
by promises from Stambuloff. The emissaries of the
Czar--'
"Mrs. Goodspeed, would you mind reading on? Here is
the place. I see my postman pass the window."
And so, moving quickly to the front door, she
interviewed the faithful Harrington, dressed, heaven
knows why, in Confederate uniform of gray. For
Harrington had served his four years on the loyal side.
Four times a day did Harrington with his letter-bag
renew the connection of this household with the world and
other worlds.
"Dear Mr. Harrington, I thought you could tell us.
Here is a girl named Nora McLaughlin, and here is her
trunk, both left at the door by the milkman, and we do
not know anything about where she belongs."
"Insufficient address?" asked Harrington,
professionally.
"Exactly. All she knows is that her brother is named
John."
"A great many of them are," said Harrington, already
writing on his memorandum book, and in his memory fixing
the fact that a large, two-legged living parcel,
insufficiently addressed, had been left at the wrong door
for John McLaughlin; also a trunk, too large for delivery
by the penny post.
"I will tell the other men, and if I was you I would
send to the police."
"Would you mind telling the first officer you meet?
I hate to send my girls out." And so she returned to
Bulgaria.
But Bulgaria was ended, and Mrs. Conover handed her
an article on "Antarctic Discovery." She was again
reading:--
"Under these circumstances Captain Wilkes, who had
collected a boatload of stones from the front of the
glacier," when she gave back the "Forum" to Mrs. Conover.
"Would you mind going on just a minute? " she said, and
ran out to meet the icecream man. So soon as he had
left his tins she said,--
"Mr. Fridge, would you mind stopping at the Dudley
School as you go home and telling Miss Lougee that there
is a lost girl here?" etc.
Good Mr. Fridge was most eager to help, and the
hostess returned, took the book again and read on with
"the temperature, as they observed it, was 99 degrees C.;
but, as the alcohol in their tins was frozen at the
moment, there seemed reason to suspect the correctness of
this observation."
And a shiver passed over the Review Club.
Thus far the powers of confusion and error seemed to
have been triumphant over poor Nora, or such was the
success of that power who uses these agencies, if the
reader prefer to personify him.
But the time had come to turn his left flank and to
attack his forces in the rear, for the postman now took
the field,--that is to say, Harrington, good fellow,
finished his third delivery, four good miles and nine-
tenths of a furlong, snow two inches deep, three, four,
six, before he was done, and then returned to his branch
office to report.
"Two-legged parcel; insufficient address; 99 Linwood
Street! Jim, what ever come to that letter that went to
99 Linwood Street with insufficient address six weeks
ago?"
"Linwood Street? Insufficient address? Foreign
letter? Why, of course, you know, went back to the
central office."
"I guess it did," said Harrington, grimly; "so I must
go there too."
This meant that after Harrington had gone his rounds
again on delivery route No. 6, four more miles and nine-
tenths more of a furlong, 313 doorbells and only 73 slit
boxes, snow now ranging from 6 inches to 12 on the
sidewalks, and breast-deep where there was a chance for
drifting, when all this was well done, so that Harrington
had no more duties to Uncle Sam, he could take Nora
McLaughlin's work in hand, and thus defeat the prince of
evil.
To the central office by a horse-car. Blocked once
or twice, but well at the office at 7.30 in the evening.
Christmas work heavy, so the whole home staff is on
duty. That is well. Enemy of souls loses one point
there.
Blind-letter clerks all here. Insufficient-delivery
men both here. Chief of returned bureau here. All
summoned to the foreign office as Harrington tells his
story. Indexes produced, ledgers, journals, day-books,
and private passbooks. John McLaughlin's biography
followed out on 67 of the different avatars in which his
personality has been manifested under that name. False
trail here--clue breaks there--scent fails here, but at
last--a joyful cry from Will Search:--
"Here you are! Insufficient address. November 1.
Queenstown letter--`Linwood, to John McLaughlin. Try
Dorchester. Try Roxbury. Try East Boston. Try
Somerville'-- and there it stops, and was not returned."
"Try Somerville!"
In these words great light fell over the eager
circle. Not because Somerville is the seat of an insane
hospital. No! But because it is not in the Boston
Directory.
If you please, Somerville is an independent city, and
so, unless John McLaughlin worked in Boston, if he lived
in Somerville, he would not be in the Boston Directory.
Not much! Somerville has its own seven John
McLaughlins besides those Boston ones.
"I say, Harry, Tom, Dick--somebody fetch Somerville
Directory!"
Dick flew and returned with the book.
"Here you be! `John McLaughlin, laborer, 99 Linwood
Street!
"Victory!"
Satan's forces tremble, and as the different officers
return to their desks "even the ranks of Tuscany" in that
well-bred office "can scarce forbear to cheer."
As for Harrington, he bids good-by, wraps his tartan
around him, and is out in the snow again. Where Linwood
Street is he "knows no more than the dead." But somebody
will know.
Somerville car. Draw of bridge open. Man falls into
the river and has to be rescued. Draw closes. Snow-
drift at Margin Street. Shovels. Drift open. Centre of
Somerville. Apothecary's shop open. "Please, where is
Linwood Street?"
"Take your second left, cross three or four streets,
turn to the right by the water-pipe, take the third
right, go down hill by the schoolhouse and take second
left, and you come out at 11 Linwood Street."
All which Harrington does. He experiences one
continual burst of joy that his route does not take him
through these detours daily. But his professional
experience is good for him. We have no need to describe
his false turns. Even aniseed would have been useless in
that snow. At last, just as the Somerville bells ring
for nine o'clock, Harrington also rings triumphant at the
door of the little five-roomed cottage, where his lantern
has already revealed the magic number 99.
Ring! as for a gilt-edged special delivery! Door
thrown open by a solid man with curly red hair, unshaven
since Sunday, in his shirtsleeves and with kerosene lamp
in his hand.
"Are you John McLaughlin?"
"Indade I am; the same."
"And where's your sister Nora?"
The good fellow, who had been stern before, broke
down. "And indade I was saying to Ellen it's an awful
night for 'em all in the gale off the coast in the ship.
The holy Virgin and the good God take care of 'em!"
"They have taken care of them," said Harrington,
reverently. "The ship is safe in dock, and your sister
Nora is in Roxbury, at 99 Linwood Street!"
And a broad grin lighted his face as he spoke the words.
There was joy in every bed and at every door of the
five rooms. Then John hastily donned coat, cardigan, and
ulster. He persuaded Harrington to drink a cup of red-
hot tea which was brewing on the stove. While the good
fellow did so, and ate a St. Anne's bun, which Mrs.
McLaughlin produced in triumph, John was persuading
Hermann Gross, the expressman next door, to put the gray
into a light pung he had for special delivery. By the
time Harrington went to the door two lanterns were
flitting about in the snow-piled yard behind the two
houses.
Harrington assisted in yoking the gray. In five
minutes he and John were defying the gale as they sped
across the silent bridge, bound south to Roxbury. Poor
little Nora was asleep in the parlor on the sofa. She
had begged and begged that she need not be put to bed,
and by her side her protector sat reading about the
antarctic. But of a sudden Harrington reappeared.
Is it Santa Claus?
Indeed it is! Beard, hat, coat, all white with snow!
And Santa Claus has come for the best present he will
deliver that evening!
Dear little Nora is wrapped in sealskins and other
skins, mauds and astrakhan rugs. She has a hot brick at
her feet, and Pompey, the dog, is made to lie over them,
so John McLaughlin No. 68 takes her in triumph to 99
Linwood Street.
That was a Christmas to be remembered! And Christmas
morning, after church, the Brothers of St. Patrick, which
was the men's society, and the Sodality of St. Anne's,
which was the women's, determined on a great Twelfth-
night feast to celebrate Nora's return.
It was to show "how these brethren love one another."
They proposed to take the rink. People didn't use
it for skating in winter as much as in summer.
Nora was to receive, with John McLaughlin and his
wife to assist. The other 74 John McLaughlins were to
act as ushers.
The Salvation Army came first, led by the lass who
found Michael.
Procession No. 2 was Mike and the teamsters who
"don't take nothing for such as she."
Third, in special horse-cars, which went through from
Dorchester to Somerville by a vermilion edict from the
West End Company, the eleven families of that No. 99.
They stopped in Roxbury to pick up Ellen and the hostess
of the Review Club.
Fourth, all the patrolmen who had helped and all who
tried to help, led by "cop" No. 47.
Fifth, all the school children who had told the story
and had made inquiries.
Sixth, the man who made the Somerville Directory.
Seventh and last, in two barouches, Harrington and
the chiefs of staff at the general post-office. And the
boys asked Father McElroy to make a speech to all just
before the dancing began.
And he said: "The lost sheep was never lost. She
thought she was lost in the wilderness, but she was at
home, for she was met by the Christmas greeting of the
world into which the dear Lord was born!"
NOTE.--It may interest the reader to know that the
important part of this story is true.
-THE END-
Edward Everett Hale's short story: 99 Linwood Street
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