e. Thomas the
third was disappointed, not to say mortified, when his only child,
born in his old age, turned out to be a girl, but he bravely did the
best he could and named her Thomasina. Mrs. Tucker did not like the
name, but she died before the baby was three days old. The baby hated
it herself when she reached years of discretion, and when she found
that she possessed a voice and had a possible career before her, she
saw plainly that something more mellifluous must be substituted if
programmes should ever be in question. Meantime she was Tommy to her
friends, and the gay little name suited her to a T. The gay little
rhyme suited her, too, for like the Tommy Tucker in Mother Goose, she
had to "sing for her supper"; for her breakfast, and her dinner, and
her tea also, for that matter, if any were to be eaten.

Her only relation, a disagreeable bachelor uncle, had given her a home
during her orphaned girlhood, and her first idea on growing up was to
get out of it. This she did promptly when she secured a place in a
Brooklyn choir. The salary was modest, but it provided a room and at
least one meal a day, not, of course, a Roman banquet, but something
to satisfy a youthful appetite. It seemed to the intrepid possessor of
a charming voice, an equally charming face, and a positive gift for
playing accompaniments, that the other two meals, and a few clothes
and sundries, might be forthcoming. As a matter of fact, they were,
although the uncle said that Tommy would starve, and he almost hoped
that she would, just to break the back of her obstinate independence.

II

Tommy had none too much to eat, and, according to her own aesthetic
ambitions, nothing at all to wear; but she was busy all day long and
absurdly happy. Her income was uncertain, but that was amusing and
thrilling rather than pitiful or tragic. She had two or three
"steadies" among singers, who gave her engagements as accompanist at
small drawing-room recitals or charitable entertainments. There was a
stout prima donna whose arias for dramatic soprano kept her practicing
until midnight, and a rich young lady amateur who needed a very
friendly and careful accompaniment because she sang flat and always
lost her breath before the end of a long phrase. The manner in which
Tommy concealed these defects was thoroughly ingenious and
sympathetic. When Miss Guggenheim paused for breath, Tommy filled the
gap with instrumental arabesques; when she was about to flat,