Little Penny, Child Of The Streets: The Lost Novels Of Nellie Bly, #9

By Nellie Bly, Robert Kauzlaric and David Blixt

From the bestselling pen of the original undercover reporter, a novel that was lost for 125 years!

Pioneering undercover journalist Nellie Bly is rightly famous for exposing society's ills. From brutal insane asylums to corrupt politicians, she exposed all manner of frauds and charlatans. She was also a skilled interviewer and reporter.

 

What no one has known was that she was also a novelist. This is because, of the twelve novels Bly wrote between 1889 and 1895, eleven have been lost - until now! Discovered by author David Blixt (What Girls Are Good For), Nellie Bly's lost works of fiction are now available for the first time! These are The Lost Novels of Nellie Bly!

 

The Two Beautiful Outcasts Of New York.

 

Little Penny Pendleton, a sweet-hearted girl who needs a crutch to walk, is thrown out of her home after the murder conviction of her foster father. Worse, her dog, her only friend in the world, is killed. Friendless, homeless, she wanders into the night.

Aline Gwynne is the haughty daughter of a millionaire, enjoying a perfect life—until her father is threatened with ruin. The man who holds her father in his grasp demands Aline's hand in marriage. Rather than submit, Aline runs away from home.

By chance, both young women meet Claude Lansdale, a poor doctor struggling to establish his practice. The handsome, noble young physician takes pity on the pair and houses them with his fiancée, Ray Willard, an ambitious woman who secretly dreams of wealth, and is determined to get it by any means.

All three are enamored of the doctor, but all fall into the power of Aline's nemesis, the villainous Felix Arrington, who means to marry Aline and keep Ray as his mistress. Yet Felix holds a secret in his heart that will change the life of . . .Little Penny, Child Of The Streets!

Extra feature: includes the New York World articles that inspired her stories!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sordelet Ink
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781944540869

Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly was born Elizabeth "Pink" Cochran. Her father, a man of considerable wealth, served for many years as judge of Armstrong County, Pennsylvania. He lived on a large estate called Cochran's Mills, which took its name from him. Being in reduced circumstances after her father's death, her mother remarried, only to divorce Jack Ford a few years later. The family then moved to Pittsburg, where a twenty-year-old Pink read a column in the Pittsburg Dispatch entitled "What Girls Are Good For." Enraged at the sexist and classist tone, she wrote a furious letter to the editor. Impressed, the editor engaged her to do special work for the newspaper as a reporter, writing under the name "Nellie Bly." Her first series of stories, "Our Workshop Girls," brought life and sympathy to working women in Pittsburgh. A year later she went as a correspondent to Mexico, where she remained six months, sending back weekly articles. After her return, she longed for broader fields, and so moved to New York. The story of her attempt to make a place for herself, or to find an opening, was a long one of disappointment, until at last she gained the attention of the New York World. Her first achievement for them was the exposure of the Blackwell's Island Insane Asylum, in which she spent ten days, and two days in the Bellevue Insane Asylum. The story created a great sensation, making "Nellie Bly" a household name. After three years of doing work as a "stunt girl" at the World, Bly conceived the idea of making a trip around the world in less time than had been done by Phileas Fogg, the fictitious hero of Jules Verne's famous novel. In fact, she made it in 72 days. On her return in January 1890 she was greeted by ovations all the way from San Francisco to New York. She then paused her reporting career to write novels, but returned to the World three years later. In 1895 she married millionaire industrialist Robert Seaman, and a couple years later retired from journalism to take an interest in his factories. She returned to journalism almost twenty years later, reporting on World War I from behind the Austrian lines. Upon returning to New York, she spent the last years of her life doing both reporting and charity work, finding homes for orphans. She died of pneumonia in 1922.

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A Brief Biography of Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly is a descendant on her father’s side of Lord Cochrane, the famous English admiral, and is closely connected with the present family, Lord and Lady Cochrane, at whose home Queen Victoria’s daughter, the Princess Beatrice and her husband spent their honeymoon. In some characteristics Nellie Bly is said to closely resemble Lord Cochrane, who was noted for his deeds of daring, and who was never happy unless engaged in some exciting affair. Nellie Bly’s great-grandfather Cochrane was one of a number of men who wrote a Declaration of Independence in Maryland near the South Mountains a long time before the historic Declaration of Independence was delivered to the world by our Revolutionary fathers. Her great-grandfather, on her mother’s side, was a man of wealth, owning at one time almost all of Somerset Co., Pa. His name was Kennedy, and his wife was a nobleman’s daughter. They eloped and fled to America. He was an officer, as were his two sons, in the Revolutionary War. Afterward he was sheriff of Somerset Co. repeatedly until old age compelled him to decline the office when then was considered one of power and importance. One of his sons, Thomas Kennedy, Nellie Bly’s great-uncle, made a flying trip around the world, starting from and returning to New York, where his wife, a New York woman by birth, awaited his arrival. It took him three years to make the trip, and he returned in shattered health. He at once set about to write the history of his trip, but his health became so bad that he had to give up his task, and he was taken to his old home in Somerset, Pa., where he shortly died, a victim of consumption. He was buried there with the honors of war. Nellie Bly’s father was a man of considerable wealth. He served for many years as judge of Armstrong Co., Pa. He lived on a large estate, where he raised cattle and had flour mills. The place took his name. It is called Cochrane’s Mills. There Nellie Bly was born.

Being in reduced circumstances, owing to some family complications, after her father’s death, and longing for excitement, she engaged to do special work for a Pittsburgh Sunday newspaper. She went for them to Mexico, where she remained six months, sending back weekly letters. After her return she longed for broader fields, and so came to New York. The story of her attempt to make a place for herself, or to find an opening, is a long one of disappointment, until at last she made a list of a number of daring and original ideas, which were submitted to a prominent editor. They were accepted, and she went to work.

Her first achievement was the exposure of the Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum, in which she spent ten days, and two days in the Bellevue Insane Asylum. The story created a great sensation, and she was called before the grand jury. An investigation was made, and her story proved true, so the grand jury recommended the changes she suggested, such as women physicians to superintend the bathing of the female insane inmates, better food and better clothing. On the strength of the story $3,000,000 a year increased appropriation was made for the benefit of the asylum.

Her next work of state interest was the story of her exposure of Ed Phelps, who was said to be the king of the Albany Lobby. For publishing this story she was summoned before an investigating committee, this time at Albany.

These two things alone made Nellie Bly’s name known in other countries as well as this, and English and French journalists constantly noticed her work.

After three years’ work on a New York paper she conceived the idea of making a trip around the world in less time than had been done by Phileas Fogg, the fictitious hero of Jules Verne’s famous novel; but when she first planned the trip to do it in 58 days, it was not met with favor by her editor. When she did go, almost a year later, it was impossible to make close connections but she, however, was the first person to make an actual record, which was 72 days. On her return she was greeted by ovations all the way from San Francisco to New York such as were never granted the most illustrious persons of our country. Thousands of people fought for glimpses of her at the stations, and no President was ever greeted by as large crowds as welcomed her at Jersey City and New York.

Since then she has spent her time lecturing and writing a book describing her experience while flying around the world. Nellie Bly has received letters from all parts of the world, in all languages, congratulating her on her successful journey, and begging autographs. Papers in every country, even Japanese and Chinese, published accounts of her novel undertaking.

Nellie Bly at an early age already showed great literary ability in verse as well as in prose, and many poems were contributed by her to the Pittsburgh and New York papers. She has, so far, written two novels—The Mystery of Central Park and Eva, the Adventuress—the latter published some time ago in the london story paper. Her latest story—New York By Night—which will begin in two weeks, bids fair to be one of the greatest successes of her life. She has stopped all newspaper writing, and is under contract, at a large sum, to contribute exclusively to the columns of the london story paper.

Her portrait published herewith is an excellent likeness. Nellie Bly is unmarried, and resides with her mother.

London—March 28th, 1891

Editor's Note: The description of Bly’s professional career is basically accurate, though the refusal to name the paper that made her famous is perplexing.

As with much published about Bly’s personal life, however, there is as much fiction as fact here. There is no evidence linking her family to British aristocracy, nor to any signers of any Declarations of Independence or Revolutionary War soldiers. This does not mean these facts should be entirely disregarded. The story about her great-uncle, for example, is entirely true.

Little Penny, Child of the Streets

or,

the two beautiful outcasts of new york.

BY NELLIE BLY

CHAPTER I.

It was growing dark. Out in the streets, wet with a drizzling rain, it would be daylight for an hour or so longer; but in the dark, close room where a strangely assorted crowd was gathered, it was already dark and gloomy.

A silence rested upon the assemblage, a silence freighted with solemnity, with the air of a deep and terrible tragedy.

A human being had just been sentenced to death.

The judge, with a countenance that was like a frozen mask of pitiless indifference, sat wearily on the bench. His long familiarity with such scenes had made him indifferent to all phases of human misery. What to him was the sentencing of one person more or less to death?

The real decision of the accused’s guilt rested with the jury. Let them decide if the prisoner be innocent or guilty. The burden and the responsibility were on their shoulders.

But he should do his duty as became a wise and learned judge. He owed himself so much. He must appear well in the newspapers; he must look well in the public eye.

He thought of this when the jury had announced their decision, and he had pronounced the sentence of death on the criminal. Throughout the case he had maintained the strictest impartiality, although the prisoner had been condemned and denounced by the public and press.

Unlike most murderers, the prisoner had no sympathizers. His record was against him. And though the sentence of death had been pronounced against the prisoner, no one felt any pity for him. He had been convicted of murdering his friend, a man of his own class and kind, and more than once had the remark been made that the one being dead, to hang the murderer would well rid the world of two worthless scamps.

Probably the voice of the world was right. The condemned was not a prepossessing man. One would have known at the first glimpse of him that the man had been born and reared among the slums.

He now sat before them rigid and pale. His hair seemed damp and was tossed in disorder over his head. His face was pale and thin, with the thinness that told of irregular eating and poor food, and although the newspapers had spoken of his hardness and indifference, a close observer might have thought that beneath the mask of indifference there lingered something that suggested sleepless nights and a helpless and dogged fear, a fear that was ashamed to let itself be seen.

As the assemblage looked to see how the condemned bore the sentence, without any thought of pitying the poor wretch, they were surprised to see him rise slowly to his feet and stand unsteadily before them.

They leaned forward curiously. What was the man about to do? They all thought that he would do something desperate at last. Was he going to denounce the judge? Or was it the jury he would direct his wrath against, or his lawyers?

They waited in breathless and curious silence.

The condemned gazed at the judge with heavy eyes.

You’ll let me say a word? he said almost doggedly. It can’t hurt any of ye to let a fellow, as is got to die in a few days, speak a word. I ain’t goin’ to beg for mercy, he added, almost proudly, seeing the judge make a move. I ain’t goin’ to say a word about ye. Maybe ye were right to say I’ve got to die, maybe it’s all I’m good for, as the one lawyer said. I ain’t saying anything ‘gainst either of ye. Nor I ain’t denyin’ that I ain’t been no good. I’ve drunk and stole and fought all my life. I don’t know as I ever did anything else, but it was all I knowed how to do.

He paused to brush his damp hair from his brow.

I’ve got to pay fer my raisin’, he resumed. "You know more about them things than I do, and you are the best judge whether I’ve the right to hang ‘count o’ my bringin’ up. You’ve said I have, and I ain’t kickin’ agin it.

I don’t want you to think I’m trying to crawl out or work any pity dodge—defiantly. "I’m tough, as you have all said, and maybe I deserve what I’m gettin’, and I fought and stole all my life, and been no good. I ain’t sayin’ you’re not right, I ain’t askin’ you to lay it to my bringin’ up. I’ve knowed there was police and courts and jails, and I’ve knowed if I got caught I’d be sent up, so I’m not sayin’ I didn’t know I’d get paid fer stealin’ and fightin’ and gettin’ drunk, and I’m not kickin’ cause I’ve got to hang, but before I pass in my chips I’ve something to say, something I want to go in the records with all the rest that’s been said.

I’m not sayin’ it fer you, or the papers as have said I ain’t fit to live; I’m sayin’ it fer the little un’, he continued with a rough and pitiable effort to appear unmoved. You see her there?

He pointed to where a woman sat, a woman whose appearance bore the look of the most abject poverty combined with the terrible look of hard drink, and the curious crowd pressing forward saw by her side a slip of a girl, crouching away as if frightened at the attention drawn to her.

She was such a little thin thing, so sallow and hungry looking, with a mass of uncombed hair and a pitiful, sensitive mouth, and great wistful big eyes that would have touched anyone who could have seen more than her rags.

She was so frail and thin that she looked younger than she really was. Any one would have said that she could not be more than ten or twelve at the most, while in reality she was in her fifteenth year.

Everybody gazed at the child as if she were some wild animal, and the busy reporters hastened to add to the notes they had already made that the girl was a cripple.

But even as they looked at her she seemed to forget them and her surroundings, and balancing herself upon her crutch, stood with her wistful eyes fastened upon the man she had just heard sentenced to death.

What thoughts and what remorse the sight of that little woebegone figure awoke in the man, none can tell, but his thin, pale cheek grew even whiter, and his rough, coarse voice grew strangely husky.

You see her, gentleman, he resumed, pointing to her. She don’t look as if she was goin’ to stay long. She’s not strong and she’s crippled in her leg and isn’t much on walkin’, but she don’t squeal; she ain’t one of that kind. It’s on ‘count of her, the little one, the kid, as I want to say a word.

No one thought of opposing him now; no one thought of sneering at the convicted murderer. The sight of a child, of a poor, pale girl, had awakened something in the hearts that even the presence of death could not arouse.

Perhaps even pity touched them. It was hard on a child, no difference how poor and miserable she was, to hear her own father sentenced to death.

She may grow up, he resumed abruptly. "‘Taint the most unlikely kids that always dies, and if she lives, I want her to know that I’m innocent. She may grow up, and I want her to know that my last word was this—that I died innocent!

She’s little, and she ain’t much to build on, he added, "but she’s game, the little ‘un is. She’s taken many a beatin’, but she never lied. She’s had a tough time of it between me and my wife, but she never complained and she never lied, and for her sake I want to say—I die innocent!

I’m not sayin’ that I deserve anything at her hands. If I’ve been good-fer-nothing to the world; if they say I don’t deserve any mercy, and that I’ve done more harm than good in my life, and I’m best out of it, what should she say? But I’m not afraid of her—there is somethin’ in her that’s not in the rest of the world. She’s been beaten, but she never fought back. Not that she’s a coward, don’t you be thinkin’ I mean that. She would face even the death I’m goin’ to, and never quail or ask fer mercy, and ‘cause of this, and ‘cause she’s the only thing in the world I care for, and ‘cause she’s the only thing that ever made me wish I’d been born—well, like the rest of ye that say I ain’t fit to live, I want her to know the truth.

The murderer stopped and drew a long and deep breath.

That’s why I wanted to say a word, he repeated. I ain’t good at it like you gentlemen, and maybe you can’t understand it, but if you’ll just put it down somewhere, where she can get it, if she grows up, we’ll cry quits, and everything’ll be square between us. You say I should hang; I’m not sayin’ anything against ye fer that, only I want the little ‘un to know that I was innocent, that she was the only thing I ever cared fer, and if I did get drunk, and fight and steal, that I never beat her. I don’t claim I’ve been good to her, but she was the only thing that was ever good to me, and I want her to know that I said that, that I didn’t forget it, and the only reason I said this last word, was because I knew it would please her if she grew up. You’ll remember—I never beat her and I died innocent.

He stopped abruptly, and rubbing his hands awkwardly across his eyes, sat down.

A deep breath swept over the room. A tension of some sort had been removed, and men glanced at each other as if ashamed of the breathless attention they had paid to the murderer. The judge resumed his look of weariness, the jury tried to assume an appearance of ease, the reporters whispered one to the other, the lawyers rattled their papers with unusual noise, and the crowd looked nervous.

The prisoner’s wife had not once looked up. If asked her opinion, she would, unhesitatingly, have said that her husband was a fool. She had at first pulled upon the child’s dress, to make her sit down again, but for once her commands were unheeded.

Leaning upon her crutch, the child had stood all the while the prisoner was speaking, her wistful eyes fastened upon his pale face, drinking in every word he said with breathless attention, and as he sunk back into his place between the two officers, the child rushed forward, and before they suspected what she was about to do, climbed through to the prisoner and stood by his side.

She grasped his hand—she was afraid to do more, for she had never been used to giving any evidence of her affection. But with his cold hand clasped in hers, she raised her pathetic big eyes to his pale face and said, earnestly, You didn’t need to tell me, Bill. I know you wouldn’t kill a man, and I don’t forget that you never beat me. Don’t you go mindin’ what they said about your not being fit to live. They only did that because they ain’t your friends, but don’t mind. When you get out, we’ll help you to forget it. I don’t mind what they say, and don’t you. Just you remember your little ‘un don’t forget ye, and she knows you’re innocent.

Unaccustomed as the poor wretch was to any show of tenderness, the child’s loyal words pierced his heart, and covering his eyes to hide the tears he was ashamed to show, he said brokenly, Go to Net, little un, and tell her not to beat you anymore.

She started to go at his command, when he caught her roughly to his breast and pressed a feverish kiss upon her tangled hair.

It was the first caress he ever gave her, and with her wistful eyes blinded with tears, she went back to the miserable woman she had left, and everybody in the court room got very busy all at once, and the judge hastened to dismiss the jury and to declare the court adjourned, and the reporters rushed to their offices to write how the convicted murderer had tried at the last moment to work a little scene that would appeal to the hearts of the jury, but that the scheme had miscarried, and coming after the sentence had been pronounced, had no effect.

And the murderer’s wife hastened through the gathering gloom and the drizzling rain to her miserable home on the top floor of one of the poorest tenements in the city, and throwing aside her ragged shawl, yelled savagely at the crippled girl, Go fer some beer, you little imp, and see that you’re not all night about it too. Get along, I say! I’m dead fer a drink and if it's long comin’, I know whose hide’ll pay fer it.

She stopped, exhausted by her own senseless fury, and glanced up in surprise to see the girl standing motionless before her.

Why don’t you go? she yelled.

I’m not goin’, the girl responded quietly.

Not goin’? the woman screamed, amazed at the first disobedience she had ever seen in the girl.

No, I won’t go, the child repeated firmly. I’ll never fetch you any more beer. There’s something wrong with us, didn’t ye hear them men say so? Bill’s not like the rest either, he said so too, and I guess it’s the beer. Them as don’t drink don’t get took up by the police, and when I heard them say Bill Pendleton wasn’t like the rest and ought to be killed, I made up my mind I’d fetch no more beer and I’d try to be like them as ain’t afraid to be seen. So I won’t fetch your beer.

Surprise had held the woman speechless and now her rage burst forth in all its strength. She had always hated the child, and now the fear of her husband’s anger being removed, she made no effort to hide her hatred.

You little limping beggar! she shouted. A fine horse you’re ridin’. I’ll show you! She grabbed up a heavy stick and rushed for the defenseless girl.

Bill said you were not to beat me, she had only time to cry, when a heavy blow knocked her to the floor and another was just about fall upon her poor bruised body, when a small mongrel dog, a dog of no beauty, a dog that looked as miserable as the poor child who owned him and who had often gone without a crust to give food to him, sprung upon the woman and fastened his teeth in her shoulder.

She turned from the girl to fight off the dog, and grabbing him by the throat, she ran to the door.

What are you goin’ to do with my dog? demanded the child, forgetting her own pain in the possible danger of her pet. Put him down. Don’t you dare hurt him.

But the woman paid no heed to her and went toward the door, and the girl, thoroughly alarmed, sprang after her. She was just in time to see the heartless woman throw the dog down the long flight of stairs. She heard one yell, the sound of something striking on the landing, and then all was still.

With a cry of rage and pain she raised her crutch and struck the woman a blow across the head that made the blood flow freely.

For a moment the light of murder gleamed in the eyes of the infuriated woman, but some fear seemed to restrain her, for taking the girl, who expected nothing else than to be beaten to death, by the shoulder, she pushed her savagely toward the stairs.

Get out of here, you imp of Satan she thundered in a fury. And never let me see your face again if ye don’t want me to kill you.

I’ve got no place to go, the child said. You won’t make me stay in the street this cold night?

Won’t I? This night and always. You’re no kin of mine, ye little devil, and if Bill would put up with the keepin’ of ye, I won’t. Ye are nothing to me, and I hate the sight of your crooked little body. Get out of here, I tell ye, and if ye don’t want to be beaten to death, never let me set eyes on ye again.

Bill owned me, protested the waif appealingly.

What ye were to Bill, I ain’t sayin’, but ye’re nothin’ to me, so get!

With that, the heartless wretch pushed the child down several stairs and then went back to her miserable room and locked the door after her.

When she heard the door bolted, the little girl slowly raised herself and hobbled down the long stairs. At the bottom she stopped to take in her arms the motionless body of her dead pet.

We’re goin’ away, doggie, she whispered softly. We ain’t comin’ back any more. We’re goin’ to find the place where people stay as have a right to live, the people as don’t know them that steal and drink and fight and kill. There is some place where people are good, doggie, and we’re goin’ to find it.

And with the dead dog under her arm the little cripple hobbled out into the darkness and the night.

CHAPTER II.

Aline Gwynne had all in the world that any girl could desire or wish for.

She was a beauty, an heiress, and an only child.

Her mother had died before Aline was old enough to remember her, and her father had never married again, but had devoted his life to his beautiful child, bestowing upon her all the love of his lonely heart, and finding in her his sole consolation for the beautiful young wife whom he had loved as a man loves but once, and whom he had lost in the sweet first years of their married life.

A man honored and respected, a broker wealthy and trusted, was Aline’s father James Gwynne.

It is not surprising that Aline returned her father’s devotion, for he had been to her a friend and companion—loving, helpful, tender—and the world that knew him only as a cold, shrewd businessman little suspected the tender father’s heart that lay concealed in his bosom.

People little knew when some new scheme flashed forth to startle the financial world—taking some men down in the crash, reducing them from affluence to poverty in an hour, making others millionaires—that James Gwynne, whose brilliant brain had planned the scheme, thought only of what it would bring his beautiful daughter. It was so many more thousands to be added to sweet Aline’s dower, so many more thousands to swell the fortune that he was accumulating for her, so many more thousands toward making her—in what was the dream of his life—the richest heiress in the world.

People never suspected this great ambition when they discussed Mr. James Gwynne’s wonderful schemes.

But Aline was not blind to the great love her father bore her, and in turn she worshiped him. He was to her loving heart the ideal of all that was good and noble. How could he be otherwise when he had always drilled such noble ideas and thoughts into her childish mind?

He had never seen one act in her that seemed ignoble but that he sought to eradicate it, and succeeded.

There was not in the whole world a sweeter and better girl than Aline Gwynne. It is not surprising that her loving father thought her perfection, for all who knew her thought the same.

She had no perceptible faults, unless it was the fault of unyielding pride. Aline was very proud, prouder than her father, who knew almost every beat of her pure heart, even suspected.

He knew in a measure that she was proud; he helped to nourish the feeling, for he argued pride was a good thing in man or woman.

A proud man or woman, he often said, will never sink to any low act or thought. Their pride will keep them from doing anything contemptible.

But he forgot how many other unhappy things could result from inordinate pride. He did not detect beneath his beautiful daughter’s gentle, well-bred manner, that dreadful proud spirit that might some day ruin her life.

How could he? He knew that Aline was kind and courteous to her servants, he knew that she was charitable to the poor, and although her manner always contained that indescribable something that never permitted any one to forget her station and theirs, he thought it only proper pride and beyond reproach.

He did not know the extreme to which Aline carried it. He did not know that to her poverty meant something beneath her royal self, and that if a king had come to her in rags, she could not have forgiven the rags or helped considering the wearer as her inferior.

To Aline Gwynne, beautiful and good as she was, there was as great a difference between wealth and poverty as there was between a king and a butcher.

But as she never encountered the middle class, the great class whose gold is in their brains and hearts, and not their purses, she found no opportunity to display the only fault in her otherwise perfect disposition.

And as she sat in her room surrounded by every evidence of wealth and luxury, she did indeed look like a princess upon whom the gods had lavishly bestowed all good things. Richest silk tapestries covered the walls, and upon the floor lay a velvet carpet that cost a small fortune, and the rugs that were scattered around were almost priceless, while the finest of point-lace curtains and rich brocade hangings covered the deep windows. Beside this, the eye might rest with rapture upon the costly pictures and books, the exquisite bric-à-brac and fine statuary, and the senses might be charmed by the cut roses that were everywhere, until the very air was