The Project Gutenberg EBook of Michael O'Halloran, by Gene Stratton-Porter
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Title: Michael O'Halloran
Author: Gene Stratton-Porter
Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9489]
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[This file was first posted on October 5, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHAEL O'HALLORAN ***
Produced by Brendan Lane, Richard Prairie and PG Distributed Proofreaders
_MICHAEL_
_O'HALLORAN_
_Gene Stratton-Porter_
Copyright 1915, 1916
_Contents_
PAGE
I. Happy Home in Sunrise Alley
II. Moccasins and Lady Slippers
III. S.O.S.
IV. "Bearer of Morning"
V. Little Brother
VI. The Song of a Bird
VII. Peaches' Preference in Blessings
VIII. Big Brother
IX. James Jr. and Malcolm
X. The Wheel of Life
XI. The Advent of Nancy and Peter
XII. Feminine Reasoning
XIII. A Safe Proposition
XIV. An Orphans' Home
XV. A Particular Nix
XVI. The Fingers in the Pie
XVII. Initiations in an Ancient and Honourable Brotherhood
XVIII. Malcolm and the Hermit Thrush
XIX. Establishing Protectorates
XX. Mickey's Miracle
CHAPTER I
_Happy Home in Sunrise Alley_
"_Aw_ KID, _come on! Be square!_"
"_You look out what you say to me._"
"_But ain't you going to keep your word?_"
"_Mickey, do you want your head busted?_"
"_Naw! But I did your work so you could loaf; now I want the pay you
promised me._"
"_Let's see you get it! Better take it from me, hadn't you?_"
"_You're twice my size; you know I can't, Jimmy!_"
"_Then you know it too, don't you?_"
"_Now look here kid, it's 'cause you're getting so big that folks will be
buying quicker of a little fellow like me; so you've laid in the sun all
afternoon while I been running my legs about off to sell your papers; and
when the last one is gone, I come and pay you what they sold for; now it's
up to you to do what you promised._"
"_Why didn't you keep it when you had it?_"
"_'Cause that ain't business! I did what I promised fair and square; I was
giving you a chance to be square too._"
"_Oh! Well next time you won't be such a fool!_"
Jimmy turned to step from the gutter to the sidewalk. Two things happened
to him simultaneously: Mickey became a projectile. He smashed with the
force of a wiry fist on the larger boy's head, while above both, an
athletic arm gripped him by the collar.
Douglas Bruce was hurrying to see a client before he should leave his
office; but in passing a florist's window his eye was attracted by a sight
so beautiful he paused an instant, considering. It was spring; the Indians
were coming down to Multiopolis to teach people what the wood Gods had put
into their hearts about flower magic.
The watcher scarcely had realized the exquisite loveliness of a milk-white
birch basket filled with bog moss of silvery green, in which were set
maidenhair and three yellow lady slippers, until beside it was placed
another woven of osiers blood red, moss carpeted and bearing five pink
moccasin flowers, faintly fined with red lavender; between them rosemary
and white ladies' tresses. A flush crept over the lean face of the
Scotsman. He saw a vision. Over those baskets bent a girl, beautiful as
the flowers. Plainly as he visualized the glory of the swamp, Douglas
Bruce pictured the woman he loved above the orchids. While he lingered,
his heart warmed, glowing, his wonderful spring day made more wonderful by
a vision not adequately describable, on his ear fell Mickey's admonition:
"Be square!"
He sent one hasty glance toward the gutter. He saw a sullen-faced newsboy
of a size that precluded longer success at paper selling, because public
sympathy goes to the little fellows. Before him stood one of these same
little fellows, lean, tow-haired, and blue-eyed, clean of face, neat in
dress; with a peculiar modulation in his voice that caught Douglas
squarely in the heart. He turned again to the flowers, but as his eyes
revelled in beauty, his ears, despite the shuffle of passing feet, and the
clamour of cars, lost not one word of what was passing in the gutter,
while with each, slow anger surged higher. Mickey, well aware that his
first blow would be all the satisfaction coming to him, put the force of
his being into his punch. At the same instant Douglas thrust forth a hand
that had pulled for Oxford and was yet in condition.
"Aw, you big stiff!" gasped Jimmy, twisting an astonished neck to see what
was happening above and in his rear so surprisingly. Had that little
Mickey O'Halloran gone mad to hit _him?_ Mickey standing back, his face
upturned, was quite as surprised as Jimmy.
"What did he promise you for selling his papers?" demanded a deep voice.
"Twen--ty-_five_," answered Mickey, with all the force of inflection in
his power. "And if you heard us, Mister, you heard him own up he was owing
it."
"I did," answered Douglas Bruce tersely. Then to Jimmy: "Hand him over
twenty-five cents."
Jimmy glared upward, but what he saw and the tightening of the hand on his
collar were convincing. He drew from his pocket five nickels, dropping
them into the outstretched hand of Douglas, who passed them to Mickey, the
soiled fingers of whose left hand closed over them, while his right
snatched off his cap. Fear was on his face, excitement was in his eyes,
triumph was in his voice, while a grin of comradeship curved his lips.
"Many thanks, Boss," he said. "And would you add to them by keeping that
strangle hold 'til you give me just two seconds the start of him?" He
wheeled, darting through the crowd.
"Mickey!" cried Douglas Bruce. "Mickey, wait!"
But Mickey was half a block away turning into an alley. The man's grip
tightened a twist.
"You'll find Mickey's admonition good," he said. "I advise you to take it.
'Be square!' And two things: first, I've got an eye on the Mickeys of this
city. If I ever again find you imposing on him or any one else, I'll put
you where you can't. Understand? Second, who is he?"
"Mickey!" answered the boy.
"Mickey who?" asked Douglas.
"How'd I know?" queried Jimmy.
"You don't know his name?" pursued Douglas.
"Naw, I don't!" said the boy.
"Where does he live?" continued Douglas.
"I don't know," answered Jimmy.
"If you have a charge to prefer, I'll take that youngster in for you,"
offered a policeman passing on his beat.
"He was imposing on a smaller newsboy. I made him quit," Douglas
explained. "That's all."
"Oh!" said the officer, withdrawing his hand. Away sped Jimmy; with him
went all chance of identifying Mickey, but Bruce thought he would watch
for him. He was such an attractive little fellow.
Mickey raced through the first alley, down a street, then looked behind.
Jimmy was not in sight.
"Got _him_ to dodge now," he muttered. "If he ever gets a grip on me he'll
hammer me meller! I'm going to have a bulldog if I half starve to buy it.
Maybe the pound would give me one. I'll see to-morrow."
He looked long, then started homeward, which meant to jump on a car and
ride for miles, then follow streets and alleys again. Finally he entered a
last alley that faced due east. A compass could not have pointed more
directly toward the rising sun; while there was at least half an hour each
clear morning when rickety stairs, wavering fire-escapes, flapping washes,
and unkept children were submerged in golden light. Long ago it had been
named. By the time of Mickey's advent Sunrise Alley was as much a part of
the map of Multiopolis as Biddle Boulevard, and infinitely more pleasing
in name. He began climbing interminable stairs. At the top of the last
flight he unlocked his door to enter his happy home; for Mickey had a
home, and it was a happy one. No one else lived in it, while all it
contained was his.
Mickey knew three things about his father: he had had one, he was not
square, and he drank himself to death. He could not remember his father,
but he knew many men engaged in the occupation of his passing, so he well
understood why his mother never expressed any regrets.
Vivid in his mind was her face, anxious and pale, but twinkling; her body
frail and overtaxed, but hitting back at life uncomplainingly. Bad things
happened, but she explained how they might have been worse; so fed on this
sop, and watching her example, Mickey grew like her. The difficult time
was while she sat over a sewing machine to be with him. When he grew
stout-legged and self-reliant, he could be sent after the food, to carry
the rent, and to sell papers, then she could work by the day, earn more,
have better health, while what both brought home paid the rent of the top
room back, of as bad a shamble as a self-respecting city would allow; kept
them fed satisfyingly if not nourishingly, and allowed them to slip away
many a nickel for the rainy day that she always explained would come. And
it did.
One morning she could not get up; the following Mickey gave all their
savings to a man with a wagon to take her to a nice place to rest. The man
was sure about it being a nice place. She had told Mickey so often what to
do if this ever happened, that when it did, all that was necessary was to
remember what he had been told. After it was over and the nice place had
been paid for, with the nickels and the sewing machine, with enough left
for the first month's rent, Mickey faced life alone. But he knew exactly
what to do, because she had told him. She had even written it down lest he
forget. It was so simple that only a boy who did not mind his mother could
have failed. The formula worked perfectly.
_Morning: Get up early. Wash your face, brush your clothes. Eat what was
left from supper for breakfast. Put your bed to air, then go out with your
papers. Don't be afraid to offer them, or to do work of any sort you have
strength for; but be deathly afraid to beg, to lie, or to steal, while if
you starve, freeze, or die, never, never touch any kind of drink_.
Any fellow could do that; Mickey told dozens of them so.
He got along so well he could pay the rent each month, dress in whole
clothing, have enough to eat, often cooked food on the little gasoline
stove, if he were not too tired to cook it, and hide nickels in the old
place daily. He had a bed and enough cover; he could get water in the hall
at the foot of the flight of stairs leading to his room for his bath, to
scrub the floor, and wash the dishes. From two years on, he had helped his
mother with every detail of her housekeeping; he knew exactly what must be
done.
It was much more dreadful than he thought it would be to come home alone,
and eat supper by himself, but if he sold papers until he was almost
asleep where he stood, he found he went to sleep as soon as he reached
home and had supper. He did not awaken until morning; then he could hurry
his work and get ahead of the other boys, and maybe sell to their
customers. It might be bad to be alone, but always he could remember her,
and make her seem present by doing every day exactly what she told him.
Then, after all, being alone was a very wonderful thing compared with
having parents who might beat and starve him and take the last penny he
earned, not leaving enough to keep him from being hungry half the time.
When Mickey looked at some of the other boys, and heard many of them talk,
he almost forgot the hourly hunger for his mother, in thankfulness that he
did not have a father and that his mother had been herself. Mickey felt
sure that if she had been any one of the mothers of most other boys he
knew, he would not have gone home at all. He could endure cold, hunger,
and loneliness, but he felt that he had no talent for being robbed,
beaten, and starved; while lately he had fully decided upon a dog for
company, when he could find the right one.
Mickey unlocked his door, entering for his water bucket. Such was his
faith in his environment that he relocked the door while he went to the
water tap. Returning to the room he again turned the key, then washed his
face and hands. He looked at the slip nailed on the wall where she had put
it. He knew every word of it, but always it comforted him to see her
familiar writing, to read aloud what to do next as if it were her voice
speaking to him. Evening: "Make up your bed." Mickey made his. "Wash any
dirty dishes." He had a few so he washed them. "Sweep your floor." He
swept. "Always prepare at least one hot thing for supper." He shook the
gasoline tank to the little stove. It sounded full enough, so he went to
the cupboard his mother had made from a small packing case. There were
half a loaf of bread wrapped in its oiled paper, with two bananas
discarded by Joe of the fruit stand. He examined his pocket, although he
knew perfectly what it contained. Laying back enough to pay for his stock
the next day, then counting in his twenty-five cents, he had forty cents
left. He put thirty in the rent box, starting out with ten. Five paid for
a bottle of milk, three for cheese, two for an egg for breakfast.
Then he went home. At the foot of the fire-escape that he used in
preference to the stairs, he met a boy he knew tugging a heavy basket.
"Take an end for a nickel," said the boy.
"Thanks," said Mickey. "It's my time to dine. 'Sides, I been done once to-
day."
"If you'll take it, I'll pay first," he offered.
"How far?" questioned Mickey.
"Oh, right over here," said the boy indefinitely.
"Sure!" said Mickey. "Cross my palm with the silver."
The nickel changed hands. Mickey put the cheese and egg in his pocket, the
milk in the basket, then started. The place where they delivered the wash
made Mickey feel almost prosperous. He picked up his milk bottle and
stepped from the door, when a long, low wail that made him shudder,
reached his ear.
"What's that?" he asked the woman.
"A stiff was carried past to-day. Mebby they ain't took the kids yet."
Mickey went slowly down the stairs, his face sober. That was what his
mother had feared for him. That was why she had trained him to care for
himself, to save the pennies, so that when she was taken away, he still
would have a home. Sounded like a child! He was halfway up the long flight
of stairs before he realized that he was going. He found the door at last,
then, stood listening. He heard long-drawn, heart-breaking moaning.
Presently he knocked. A child's shriek was the answer. Mickey straightway
opened the door. The voice guided him to a heap of misery in a corner.
"What's the matter kid?" inquired Mickey huskily.
The bundle stirred, while a cry issued. He glanced around the room. What
he saw reassured him. He laid hold of the tatters, beginning to uncover
what was under them. He dropped his hands, stepping back, when a tangled
yellow mop and a weazened, bloated girl-child face peered at him, with
wildly frightened eyes.
"If you'd put the wind you're wastin' into words, we'd get something done
quicker," advised Mickey.
The tiny creature clutched the filthy covers, still staring.
"Did you come to '_get_' me?" she quavered.
"No," said Mickey. "I heard you from below so I came to see what hurt you.
Ain't you got folks?"
She shook her head: "They took granny in a box and they said they'd come
right back and '_get_' me. Oh, please, please don't let them!"
"Why they'd be good to you," said Mickey largely. "They'd give you"--he
glanced at all the things the room lacked, then enumerated--"a clean bed,
lots to eat, a window you could be seeing from, a doll, maybe."
"No! No!" she cried. "Granny always said some day she'd go and leave me;
then they'd '_get_' me. She's gone! The big man said they'd come right
back. Oh don't let them! Oh hide me quick!"
"Well--well--! If you're so afraid, why don't you cut and hide yourself
then?" he asked.
"My back's bad. I can't walk," the child answered.
"Oh Lord!" said Mickey. "When did you get hurt?"
"It's always been bad. I ain't ever walked," she said.
"Well!" breathed Mickey, aghast. "And knowing she'd have to leave you some
day, your granny went and scared you stiff about the Home folks taking
you, when it's the only place for you to be going? Talk about women having
the sense to vote!"
"I won't go! I won't! I'll scratch them! I'll bite them!" Then in swift
change: "Oh boy, don't. Please, please don't let them '_get_' me."
Mickey took both the small bony hands reaching for him. He was so
frightened with their hot, tremulous clutch, that he tried to pull away,
dragging the tiny figure half to light and bringing from it moans of pain.
"Oh my back! Oh you're hurting me! Oh don't leave me! Oh boy, oh _dear_
boy, please don't leave me!"
When she said "Oh dear boy," Mickey heard the voice of his mother in an
hourly phrase. He crept closer, enduring the touch of the grimy claws.
"My name's Mickey," he said. "What's your?"
"Peaches," she answered. "Peaches, when I'm good. Crippled brat, when I'm
bad."
"B'lieve if you had your chance you could look the peaches," said Mickey,
"but what were you bad for?"
"So's she'd hit me," answered Peaches.
"But if me just pulling a little hurt you so, what happened when she hit
you?" asked Mickey.
"Like knives stuck into me," said Peaches.
"Then what did you be bad for?" marvelled Mickey.
"Didn't you ever get so tired of one thing you'd take something that hurt,
jus' for a change?"
"My eye!" said Mickey. "I don't know one fellow who'd do that, Peaches."
"Mickey, hide me. Oh hide me! Don't let them '_get_' me!" she begged.
"Why kid, you're crazy," said Mickey. "Now lemme tell you. Where they'll
take you _looks_ like a nice place. Honest it does. I've seen lots of
them. You get a clean soft bed all by yourself, three big hot meals a day,
things to read, and to play with. Honest Peaches, you do! I wouldn't tell
you if it wasn't so. If I'll stay with you 'til they come, then go with
you to the place 'til you see how nice it is, will you be good and go?"
She burrowed in the covers, screeching again.
"You're scared past all reason," said Mickey. "You don't know anything.
But maybe the Orphings' Homes ain't so good as they look. If they are, why
was mother frightened silly about them getting _me?_ Always she said she
just _had_ to live until I got so big they wouldn't 'get' me. And I kept
them from getting me by doing what she told me. Wonder if I could keep
them from getting you? There's nothing of you. If I could move you there,
I bet I could feed you more than your granny did, while I know I could
keep you cleaner. You could have my bed, a window to look from, and clean
covers." Mickey was thinking aloud. "Having you to come home to would be
lots nicer than nothing. You'd beat a dog all hollow, 'cause you can talk.
If I could get you there, I believe I could be making it. Yes, I believe I
could do a lot better than this, and I believe I'd like you, Peaches, you
are such a game little kid."
"She could lift me with one hand," she panted. "Oh Mickey, take me!
Hurry!"
"Lemme see if I can manage you," said Mickey. "Have you got to be took any
particular way?"
"Mickey, ain't you got folks that beat you?" she asked.
"I ain't got folks now," said Mickey, "and they didn't beat me when I had
them. I'm all for myself--and if you say so, I guess from now on, I'm for
you. Want to go?"
Her arms wound tightly around his neck. Her hot little face pressed
against it.
"Put one arm 'cross my shoulders, an' the other round my legs," she said.
"But I got to go down a lot of stairs; it's miles and miles," said Mickey,
"and I ain't got but five cents. I spent it all for grub. Peaches, are you
hungry?"
"No!" she said stoutly. "Mickey, hurry!"
"But honest, I can't carry you all that way. I would if I could, Peaches,
honest I would."
"Oh Mickey, dear Mickey, hurry!" she begged.
"Get down and cover up 'til I think," he ordered. "Say you look here! If I
tackle this job do you want a change bad enough to be mean for me?"
"Just a little bit, maybe," said Peaches.
"But I won't hit you," explained Mickey.
"You can if you want to," she said. "I won't cry. Give me a good crack
now, an' see if I do."
"You make me sick at my stummick," said Mickey. "Lord, kid! Snuggle down
'til I see. I'm going to get you there some way."
Mickey went back to the room where he helped deliver the clothes basket.
"How much can you earn the rest of the night?" he asked the woman.
"Mebby ten cents," she said.
"Well, if you will loan me that basket and ten cents, and come with me an
hour, there's that back and just a dollar in it for you, lady," he
offered.
She turned from him with a sneering laugh.
"Honest, lady!" said Mickey. "This is how it is: that crying got me so I
went Anthony Comstockin'. There's a kid with a lame back all alone up
there, half starved and scared fighting wild. We could put her in that
basket, she's just a handful, and take her to a place she wants to go. We
could ride most of the way on the cars and then a little walk, and get her
to a cleaner, better room, where she'd be taken care of, and in an hour
you'd be back with enough nickels in your pocket to make a great, big,
round, shining, full-moon cartwheel. Dearest lady, doesn't the prospect
please you?"
"It would," she said, "if I had the cartwheel now."
"In which case you wouldn't go," said Mickey. "Dearest lady, it isn't
business to pay for undone work."
"And it isn't business to pay your employer's fare to get to your job
either," she retorted.
"No, that beats business a mile," said Mickey. "That's an _investment_.
You invest ten cents and an hour's time on a gamble. Now look what you
get, lady. A nice restful ride on the cars. Your ten cents back, a whole,
big, shining, round, lady-liberty bird, if you trust in God, as the coin
says the bird does, and more'n that, dearest lady, you go to bed feeling
your pinfeathers sprouting, 'cause you've done a kind deed to a poor
crippled orphing."
"If I thought you really had the money--" she said.
"Honest, lady, I got the money," said Mickey, "and 'sides, I got a
surprise party for you. When you get back you may go to that room and take
every scrap that's in it. Now come on; you're going to be enough of a
sporting lady to try a chance like that, ain't you? May be a gold mine up
there, for all I know. Put something soft in the bottom of the basket
while I fetch the kid."
Mickey ran up the stairs.
"Now Peaches," he said, "I guess I got it fixed. I'm going to carry you
down; a nice lady is going to put you in a big basket, then we'll take you
to the cars and so get you to my house; but you got to promise, 'cross
your heart, you won't squeal, nor say a word, 'cause the police will 'get'
you sure, if you do. They'll think the woman is your ma, so it will be all
right. See?"
Peaches nodded. Mickey wrapped her in the remnants of a blanket, carried
her downstairs and laid her in the basket. By turning on her side and
drawing up her feet, she had more room than she needed.
"They won't let us on the cars," said the woman.
"Dearest lady, wait and see," said Mickey. "Now Peaches, shut your eyes,
also your mouth. Don't you take a chance at saying a word. If they won't
stand the basket, we'll carry you, but it would hurt you less, while it
would come in handy when we run out of cars. You needn't take coin only
for going, dearest lady; you'll be silver plated coming back."
"You little fool," said the woman, but she stooped to her end of the
basket.
"Ready, Peaches," said Mickey, "and if it hurts, 'member it will soon be
over, and you'll be where nobody will ever hurt you again."
"Hurry!" begged the child.
Down the long stairs they went and to the car line. Crowded car after car
whirled past; finally one came not so full, it stopped to let off
passengers. Mickey was at the conductor's elbow.
"Please mister, a lame kid," he pleaded. "We want to move her. Please,
please help us on."
"Can't!" said the conductor. "Take a taxi."
"Broke my limousine," said Mickey. "Aw come on mister; ain't you got kids
of your own?"
"Get out of the way!" shouted the conductor.
"Hang on de back wid the basket," cried the woman.
With Peaches laid over her shoulder, she swung to the platform, and found
a seat, while Mickey grabbed the basket and ran to the back screaming
after her: "I got my fare; only pay for yourself." Mickey told the
conductor to tell the lady where to leave the car. When she stepped down
he was ready with the basket. Peaches, panting and in cold perspiration
with pain, was laid in it.
"Lovely part of the village, ain't it, lady?" said Mickey. "See the
castles of the millyingaires piercing the sky; see their automobiles at
the curb; see the lovely ladies and gents promenading the streets enjoying
the spring?"
Every minute Mickey talked to keep the woman from noticing how far she was
going; but soon she growled: "How many miles furder is it?"
"Just around a corner, up an alley, and down a side street a step. Nothing
at all! Nice promenade for a spry, lovely young lady like you. Evening
walk, smell spring in the air. 'Most there now, Peaches."
"Where are ye takin' this kid? How'll I ever get back to the car line?"
asked the woman.
Mickey ignored the first question. "Why, I'll be eschorting you of course,
dearest lady," he said.
At the point of rebellion, Mickey spoke. "Now set the basket down right
here," he ordered. "I'll be back in no time with the lady-bird."
He returned in a few minutes. Into her outstretched palm he counted
twenty-two nickels, picked the child from the basket, darted around a
corner calling, "Back in a minute," and was gone.
"Now Peaches, we got some steps to climb," he said. "Grip my neck tight
and stand just a little more."
"I ain't hurt!" she asserted. "I like seein' things. I never saw so much
before. I ain't hurt--much!"
"Your face, your breathing, and the sweating on your lips, is a little
disproving," said Mickey, "but I'll have to take your word for it, 'cause
I can't help it; but it'll soon be over so you may rest."
Mickey climbed a flight, then sat down until he could manage another. The
last flight he rested three times. One reason he laid Peaches on the floor
was because he couldn't reach the bed. After a second's pause he made
a light, and opened the milk bottle.
"Connect with that," he said. "I got to take the lady back to the cars."
"Oh!" cried the connected child. "Oh Mickey, how good!"
"Go slow!" said Mickey. "You better save half to have with some bread for
your supper. Now I got to leave you a little bit, but you needn't be
afraid, 'cause I'll lock you in. Nobody will '_get_' you here."
"Now for the cars," said Mickey to his helper.
"What did them folks say?" she asked.
"Tickled all over," answered Mickey promptly.
"That bundle of dirty rags!" she scoffed.
"They are going to throw away the rags and wash her," said Mickey. "She's
getting her supper now."
"Sounds like lying," said the woman, "but mebby it ain't. Save me, I can't
see why anybody would want a kid at any time, let alone a reekin' bunch of
skin and crooked bones."
"You've known folks to want a dog, ain't you?" said Mickey. "Sure
something that can think and talk back must be a lot more amusing. I see
the parks are full of the rich folks dolling up the dogs, feeding them
candy and sending them out for an airing in their automobiles; so it's up
to the poor people to look after the homeless children, isn't it?"
"Do you know the folks that took her?"
"Sure I do!" said Mickey.
"Do you live close?" she persisted.
"Yes! I'm much obliged for your help, dearest lady. When you get home, go
up to the last attic back, and if there is anything there you want, help
yourself. Peaches don't need it now, while there's no one else. Thank you,
and good-bye. Don't fly before your wings grow, 'cause I know you'll feel
like trying to-night."
Mickey hurried back to his room. The milk bottle lay on the floor, the
child asleep beside it. The boy gazed at her. There were strange and
peculiar stirrings in his lonely little heart. She was so grimy he
scarcely could tell what she looked like, but the grip of her tiny hot
hands was on him. Presently he laughed.
"Well fellers! Look what I've annexed! And I was hunting a dog! Well,
she's lots better. She won't eat much more, she can talk, and she'll be
something alive waiting when I come home. Gee, I'm _glad_ I found her."
Mickey set the washtub on the floor near the sleeping child, and filling
the dishpan with water, put it over the gasoline burner. Then he produced
soap, a towel, and comb. He looked at the child again, and going to the
box that contained his mother's clothing he hunted out a nightdress. Then
he sat down to wait for the water to heat. The door slammed when he went
after a bucket of cold water, and awakened the girl. She looked at him,
then at his preparations.
"I ain't going to be washed," she said. "It'll hurt me. Put me on the
bed."
"Put you on my bed, dirty like you are?" cried Mickey. "I guess not! You
are going to be a soaped lady. If it hurts, you can be consoling yourself
thinking it will be the last time, 'cause after this you'll be washed
every day so you won't need skinning alive but once."
"I won't! I won't!" she cried.
"Now looky here!" said Mickey. "I'm the boss of this place. If I say wash,
it's _wash!_ See! I ain't going to have a dirty girl with mats in her hair
living with me. You begged me and begged me to bring you, now you'll be
cleaned up or you'll go back. Which is it, back or soap?"
The child stared at him, then around the room.
"Soap," she conceded.
"That's a lady," said Mickey. "Course it's soap! All clean and sweet
smelling like a flower. See my mammy's nice white nightie for you? How bad
is your back, Peaches? Can you sit up?"
"A little while," she answered. "My legs won't go."
"Never you mind," said Mickey. "I'll work hard and get a doctor, so some
day they will."
"They won't ever," insisted Peaches. "Granny carried me to the big doctors
once, an' my backbone is weak, an' I won't ever walk, they all said so."
"Poot! Doctors don't know everything," scorned Mickey. "That was _long_
ago, maybe. By the time I can earn enough to get you a dress and shoes, a
doctor will come along who's found out how to make backs over. There's one
that put different legs on a dog. I read about it in the papers I sold.
We'll save our money and get him to put another back on you. Just a bully
back."
"Oh Mickey, will you?" she cried.
"Sure!" said Mickey. "Now you sit up and I'll wash you like Mammy always
did me."
Peaches obeyed. Mickey soaped a cloth, knelt beside her; then he paused.
"Say Peaches, when was your hair combed last?"
"I don't know, Mickey," she answered.
"There's more dirt in it than there is on your face."
"If you got shears, just cut it off," she suggested.
"Sure!" said Mickey.
He produced shears and lifting string after string cut all of them the
same distance from her head.
"Girls' shouldn't be short, like boys'," he explained. "Now hang your head
over the edge of the tub and shut your eyes so I can wash it," he ordered.
Mickey soaped and scoured until the last tangle was gone, then rinsed and
partly dried the hair, which felt soft and fine to his fingers.
"B'lieve it's going to curl," he said.
"Always did," she answered.
Mickey emptied and rinsed the tub at the drain, then started again on her
face and ears, which he washed thoroughly. He pinned a sheet around her
neck, then she divested herself of the rags. Mickey lifted her into the
tub, draped the sheet over the edge, poured in the water, and handed her
the soap.
"Now you scour, while I get supper," he said.
Peaches did her best. Mickey locked her in and went after more milk. He
wanted to add several extras, but remembering the awful hole the dollar
had made in his finances, he said grimly: "No-sir-ee! With a family to
keep, and likely to need a doctor at any time and a Carrel back to buy,
there's no frills for Mickey. Seeing what she ain't had, she ought to be
thankful for just milk."
So he went back, lifted Peaches from the tub and laid her on the floor,
where he dried her with the sheet. Then he put the nightdress over her
head, she slipped her arms in the sleeves, and he stretched her on his
bed. She was so lost in the garment he tied a string under her arms to
hold it, and cut off the sleeves at her elbows. The pieces he saved for
washcloths. Mickey spread his sheet over her, rolled the bed before the
window where she could have air, see sky and housetops, then brought her
supper. It was a cup of milk with half the bread broken in, and a banana.
Peaches was too tired to eat, so she drank the milk while Mickey finished
the remainder. Then he threw her rags from the window, and spread his
winter covers on the floor for his bed. Soon both of them were asleep.
CHAPTER II
_Moccasins and Lady Slippers_
"No messenger boy for those," said Douglas Bruce as he handed the florist
the price set on the lady slippers. "Leave them where people may enjoy
them until I call."
As he turned, another man was inquiring about the orchids; he too
preferred the slippers; but when he was told they were taken, he had
wanted the moccasins all the time, anyway. The basket was far more
attractive. He refused delivery, returning to his waiting car smiling over
the flowers. He also saw a vision of the woman into whose sated life he
hoped to bring a breath of change with the wonderful gift. He saw the
basket in her hands, and thrilled in anticipation of the favours her
warmed heart might prompt her to bestow upon him.
In the mists of early morning the pink orchids surrounded by rosemary and
ladies' tresses had glowed and gleamed from the top of a silvery moss
mound four feet deep, under a big tamarack in a swamp, through the bog of
which the squaw plunged to her knees at each step to uproot them. In the
evening glow of electricity, snapped from their stems, the beautiful
basket untouched, the moccasins lay on the breast of a woman of fashion,
while with every second of contact with the warmth of her body, they
drooped lower, until clasped in the arms of her lover, they were quite
crushed, then flung from an automobile to be ground to pulp by passing
wheels.
The slippers had a happier fate. Douglas Bruce carried them reverently. He
was sure he knew the swamp in which they grew. As he went his way, he held
the basket, velvet-white, in strong hands, swaying his body with the
motion of the car lest one leaf be damaged. When he entered the hall, down
the stairs came Leslie Winton.
"Why Douglas, I wasn't expecting you," she said.
Douglas Bruce held up the basket.
"Joy!" she cried. "Oh joy unspeakable! Who has been to the tamarack
swamp?"
"A squaw was leaving Lowry's as he put these in his window," answered
Douglas.
"Bring them," she said.
He followed to a wide side veranda, set the basket on a table in a cool
spot, then drew a chair near it. Leslie Winton seated herself, leaning on
the table to study the orchids. Unconsciously she made the picture Douglas
had seen. She reached up slim fingers in delicate touchings here and there
of moss, corolla and slipper.
"Never in all my days--" she said. "Never in all my days--I shall keep the
basket always, and the slippers as long as I possibly can. See this one!
It isn't fully open. I should have them for a week at least. Please hand
me a glass of water."
Douglas started to say that ice water would be too cold, but with the
wisdom of a wise man waited; and as always, was joyed by the waiting. For
the girl took the glass and cupping her hands around it sat talking to the
flowers, and to him, as she warmed the water with heat from her body.
Douglas was so delighted with the unforeseen second that had given him
first chance at the orchids, and so this unexpected call, that he did not
mind the attention she gave the flowers. He had reasons for not being
extravagant; but seldom had a like sum brought such returns. He began
drawing interest as he watched Leslie. Never had her form seemed so
perfect, her dress so becoming and simple. How could other women make a
vulgar display in the same pattern that clothed her modestly? How
wonderful were the soft coils of her hair, the tints paling and flushing
on her cheeks, her shining eyes! Why could not all women use her low,
even, perfectly accented speech and deliberate self-control?
He was in daily intercourse with her father, a high official of the city,
a man of education, social position, and wealth. Mr. Winton had reared his
only child according to his ideas; but Douglas, knowing these things,
believed in blood also. As Leslie turned and warmed the water, watching
her, the thought was strong in his mind: what a woman her mother must have
been! Each day he was with Leslie, he saw her do things that no amount of
culture could instil. Instinct and tact are inborn; careful rearing may
produce a good imitation, they are genuine only with blood. Leslie had
always filled his ideal of a true woman. To ignore him for his gift would
have piqued many a man; Douglas Bruce was pleased.
"You wonders!" she said softly. "Oh you wonders! When the mists lifted in
the marshes this morning, and the first ray of gold touched you to equal
goldness, you didn't know you were coming to me. I almost wish I could put
you back. Just now you should be in such cool mistiness, while you should
be hearing a hermit thrush sing vespers, a cedar bird call, and a whip-
poor-will cry. But I'm glad I have you! Oh I'm so glad you came to me! I
never materialized a whole swamp with such vividness as only this little
part of it brings. Douglas, when you caught the first glimpse of these,
how far into the swamp did you see past them?"
"To the heart--of the swamp--and of my heart."
"I can see it as perfectly as I ever did," she said. "But I eliminate the
squaw; possibly because I didn't see her. And however exquisite the basket
is, she broke the law when she peeled a birch tree. I'll wager she brought
this to Lowry, carefully covered. And I'm not sure but there should have
been a law she broke when she uprooted these orchids. Much as I love them,
I doubt if I can keep them alive, and bring them to bloom next season.
I'll try, but I don't possess flower magic in the highest degree."
She turned the glass, touching it with questioning palm. Was it near the
warmth of bog water? After all, was bog water warm? Next time she was in a
swamp she would plunge her hand deeply in the mosses to feel the exact
temperature to which those roots had been accustomed. Then she spoke
again.
"Yes, I eliminate the squaw," she said. "These golden slippers are the
swamp to me, but I see you kneeling to lift them. I am so glad I'm the
woman they made you see."
Douglas sat forward and opened his lips. Was not this the auspicious
moment?
"Did the squaw bring more?" she questioned.
"Yes," he answered. "Pink moccasins in a basket of red osiers, with the
same moss, rosemary and white tresses. Would you rather those?"
She set down the glass, drawing the basket toward her with both hands. As
she parted the mosses to drop in the water she slowly shook her head.
"One must have seen them to understand what that would be like," she said.
"I know it was beautiful, but I'm sure I should have selected the gold had
I been there. Oh I wonder if the woman who has the moccasins will give
them a drink to-night! And will she try to preserve their roots?"
"She will not!" said Douglas emphatically.
"How can you possibly know?" queried the girl.
"I saw the man who ordered them," laughed Douglas.
"Oh!" cried Leslie, comprehendingly.
"I'd stake all I'm worth the moccasins are drooping against a lavender
dress; the roots are in the garbage can, while the cook or maid has the
basket," he said.
"Douglas, how can you!" exclaimed Leslie.
"I couldn't! Positively couldn't! Mine are here!"
The slow colour crept into her cheek. "I'll make those roots bloom next
spring; you shall see them in perfection," she promised.
"That would be wonderful!" he exclaimed warmly.
"Tell me, were there yet others?" she asked hastily.
"Only these," he said. "But there was something else. I came near losing
them. While I debated, or rather while I possessed these, and worshipped
the others, there was a gutter row that almost made me lose yours."
"In the gutter again?" she laughed.
"Once again," he admitted. "Such a little chap, with an appealing voice,
while his inflection was the smallest part of what he was saying. 'Aw kid,
come on. Be square!' Oh Leslie!"
"Why Douglas!" the girl cried. "Tell me!"
"Of all the wooden-head slowness!" he exclaimed. "I've let him slip
again!"
"Let who 'slip again?'" questioned Leslie. "My little brother!" answered
he.
"Oh Douglas! You didn't really?" she protested.
"Yes I did," he said. "I heard a little lad saying the things that are in
the blood and bone of the men money can't buy and corruption can't break.
I heard him plead like a lawyer and argue his case straight. I lent a hand
when his eloquence failed, got him his deserts, then let him go! I did
have an impulse to keep him. I did call after him. But he disappeared."
"Douglas, we can find him!" she comforted.
"I haven't found either of the others I realized I'd have been interested
in, after I let them slip," he answered, "while this boy was both of them
rolled into one, and ten more like them."
"Oh Douglas! I'm so sorry! But maybe some other man has already found
him," said Leslie.
"No. You can always pick the brothered boys," said Douglas. "The first
thing that happens to them is a clean-up and better clothing; then an air
of possessed importance. No man has attached this one."
"Douglas, describe him," she commanded. "I'll watch for him. How did he
look? What was the trouble?"
"One at a time," cautioned the man. "He was a little chap, a white, clean,
threadbare little chap, with such a big voice, so wonderfully intoned, and
such a bigger principle, for which he was fighting. One of these overgrown
newsboys the public won't stand for unless he is in the way when they are
making a car, had hired him to sell his papers while he loafed.
Mickey----"
"'Mickey?'" repeated Leslie questioningly.
"The big fellow called him 'Mickey'; no doubt a mother who adored him
named him Michael, and thought him 'like unto God' when she did it. The
big fellow had loafed all afternoon. When Mickey came back and turned over
the money, and waited to be paid off, his employer laughed at the boy for
not keeping it when he had it. Mickey begged him 'to be square' and told
him that 'was not business'--'_not business_,' mind you, but the big
fellow jeered at him and was starting away. Mickey and I reached him at
the same time; so I got in the gutter again. I don't see how I can be so
slow! I don't see how I did it!"
"I don't either," she said, with a twinkle that might have referred to the
first of the two exclamations. "It must be your Scotch habit of going
slowly and surely. But cheer up! We'll find him. I'll help you."
"Have you reflected on the fact that this city covers many square miles,
of which a fourth is outskirts, while from them three thousand newsboys
gathered at the last Salvation Army banquet for them?"
"That's where we can find him!" she cried. "Thanksgiving, or Christmas! Of
course we'll see him then."
"Mickey didn't have a Salvation Army face," he said. "I am sure he is a
free lance, and a rare one; besides, this is May. I want my little brother
to go on my vacation with me. I want him now."
"Would it help any if I'd be a sister to you?"
"Not a bit," said Douglas. "I don't in the very least wish to consider you
in the light of a sister; you have another place in my heart, very
different, yet all your own; but I do wish to make of Mickey the little
brother I never have had. Minturn was telling me what a rejuvenation he's
getting from the boy he picked up. Already he has him in his office, and
is planning school and partnership with a man he can train as he chooses."
"But Minturn has sons of his own!" protested Leslie.
"Oh no! Not in the least!" exclaimed Douglas. "Minturn has sons of his
_wife's_. She persistently upsets and frustrates Minturn's every idea for
them, while he is helpless. You will remember she has millions; he has
what he earns. He can't separate his boys, splendid physical little chaps,
from their mother's money and influence, and educate them to be a help to
him. They are to be made into men of wealth and leisure. Minturn will
evolve his little brother into a man of brains and efficiency."
"But Minturn is a power!" cried the girl.
"Not financially," explained Douglas. "Nothing but money counts with his
wife. In telling me of this boy, Minturn confessed that he was forced,
_forced_ mind you, to see his sons ruined, while he is building a street
gamin as he would them, if permitted."
"How sad, Douglas!" cried Leslie. "Your voice is bitter. Can't he do
something?"
"Not a blooming thing!" answered Douglas. "She has the money. She is their
mother. Her character is unimpeachable. If Minturn went to extremes, the
law would give them to her; she would turn them over to ignorant servants
who would corrupt them, and be well paid for doing it. Why Minturn told
me--but I can't repeat that. Anyway, he made me eager to try my ideas on a
lad who would be company for me, when I can't be here and don't wish to be
with other men."
"Are you still going to those Brotherhood meetings?"
"I am. And I always shall be. Nothing in life gives me such big returns
for the time invested. There is a world of talk breaking loose about the
present 'unrest' among women; I happen to know that the 'unrest' is as
deep with men. For each woman I personally know, bitten by 'unrest,' I
know two men in the same condition. As long as men and women are forced to
combine, to uphold society, it is my idea that it would be a good thing if
there were to be a Sisterhood organized; then the two societies frankly
brought together and allowed to clear up the differences between them."
"But why not?" asked the girl eagerly.
"Because we are pursuing false ideals, we have a wrong conception of what
is _worth while in life_," answered the Scotsman. "Because the sexes
except in rare, very rare, instances, do not understand each other, and
every day are drifting farther apart, while most of the married folk I
know are farthest apart of all. Leslie, what is it in marriage that
constrains people? We can talk, argue and agree or disagree on anything,
why can't the Minturns?"
"From what you say, it would seem to me it's her idea of what is worth
while in life," said Leslie.
"Exactly!" cried Douglas. "But he can sway men! He can do powerful work.
He could induce her to marry him. Why can't he control his own blood?"
"If she should lose her money and become dependent upon him for support,
he could!" said Leslie.
"He should do it anyway," insisted Douglas.
"Do you think you could?" she queried.
"I never thought myself in his place," said Douglas, "but I believe I
will, and if I see glimmerings, I'll suggest them to him."
"Good boy!" said the girl lightly. And then she added: "Do you mind if I
think myself in her place and see if I can suggest a possible point at
which she could be reached? I know her. I shouldn't consider her happy. At
least not with what I call joy."
"What do you call joy?" asked Douglas.
"Being satisfied with your environment."
Douglas glanced at her, then at her surroundings, and looking into her
eyes laughed quizzically.
"But if it were different, I am perfectly confident that I should work out
joy from life," insisted Leslie. "It owes me joy! I'll have it, if I fight
for it!"
"Leslie! Leslie! Be careful! You are challenging Providence. Stronger men
than I have wrought chaos for their children," said a warning voice, as
her father came behind her chair.
"Chaos or no, still I'd put up my fight for joy, Daddy," laughed the girl.
"Only see, Preciousest!"
"One minute!" said her father, shaking hands with Douglas. "Now what is
it, Leslie? Oh, I do see!"
"Take my chair and make friends," said the girl.
Mr. Winton seated himself, then began examining and turning the basket.
"Indians?" he queried.
"Yes," said Douglas. "A particularly greasy squaw. I wish I might
truthfully report an artist's Indian of the Minnehaha type, but alack, it
was the same one I've seen ever since I've been in the city, and that
you've seen for years before my arrival."
Mr. Winton still turned the basket.
"I've bought their stuff for years, because neither Leslie nor her mother
ever would tolerate fat carnations and overgrown roses so long as I could
find a scrap of arbutus, a violet or a wake-robin from the woods. We've
often motored up and penetrated the swamp I fancy these came from, for
some distance, but later in the season; it's so very boggy now. Aren't
these rather wonderful?" He turned to his daughter.
"Perfectly, Daddy," she said. "Perfectly!"
"But I don't mean for the Creator," explained Mr. Winton. "I am accustomed
to His miracles. Every day I see a number of them. I mean for the squaw."
"I'd have to know the squaw and understand her viewpoint," said Leslie.
"She had it in her tightly clenched fist," laughed Douglas. "One, I'm
sure; anyway, not over two."
"That hasn't a thing to do with the _art_ with which she made the basket
and filled it with just three perfect plants," said Leslie.
"You think there is real art in her anatomy?" queried Mr. Winton.
"Bear witness, O you treasures of gold!" cried Leslie, waving toward the
basket.
"There was another," explained Douglas as he again described the osier
basket.
Mr. Winton nodded. He looked at his daughter.
"I like to think, young woman, that you were born with and I have
cultivated what might be called artistic taste in you," he said. "Granted
the freedom of the tamarack swamp, could you have done better?"
"Not so well, Daddy! Not nearly so well. I never could have defaced what
you can see was a noble big tree by cutting that piece of bark, while I
might have worshipped until dragged away, but so far as art and I are
concerned, the slippers would still be under their tamarack."
"You are begging the question, Leslie," laughed her father. "I was not
discussing the preservation of the wild, I was inquiring into the state of
your artistic ability. If you had no hesitation about taking the flowers,
could you have gone to that swamp, collected the material and fashioned
and filled a more beautiful basket that this?"
"How can I tell, Daddy?" asked the girl. "There's only one way to learn.
I'll forget my scruples, you get me a pair of rubber boots, then we'll
drive to the tamarack swamp and experiment."
"We'll do it!" cried Mr. Winton. "The very first half day I can spare,
we'll do it. And you Douglas, you will want to come with us, of course."
"Why, 'of course,'" laughed Leslie.
"Because he started the expedition with his golden slippers. When it come
to putting my girl, and incidentally my whole family, in competition with
an Indian squaw on a question of art, naturally, her father and one of her
best friends would want to be present."
"But maybe 'Minnie' went alone, and what chance would her work have with
you two for judges?" asked Leslie.
"We needn't be the judges," said Douglas Bruce quietly.
"We can put this basket in the basement in a cool, damp place, where it
will keep perfectly for a week. When you make your basket we can find the
squaw and bring her down with us. Lowry could display the results side by
side. He could call up whomever you consider the most artistic man and
woman in the city and get their decision. You'd be willing to abide by
that, wouldn't you?"
"Surely, but it wouldn't be fair to the squaw," explained Leslie. "I'd
have had the benefit of her art to begin on."
"It would," said Mr. Winton. "Does not every artist living, painter,
sculptor, writer, what you will, have the benefit of all art that has gone
before?"
"You agree?" Leslie turned to Douglas.
"Your father's argument is a truism."
"But I will know that I am on trial. She didn't. Is it fair to her?"
persisted Leslie.
"For begging the question, commend me to a woman," said Mr. Winton. "The
point we began at, was not what you could do in a contest with her. She
went to the swamp and brought from it some flower baskets. It is perfectly
fair to her to suppose that they are her best art. Now what we are
proposing to test is whether the finest product of our civilization, as
embodied in you, can go to the same swamp, and from the same location
surpass her work. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Daddy, and it would be fair," conceded Leslie. "But it
is an offence punishable with a heavy fine to peel a birch tree; while I
wouldn't do it, if it were not."
"Got her to respect the law anyway," said Mr. Winton to Douglas. "The
proposition, Leslie, was not that you do the same thing, but that from the
same source you outdo her. You needn't use birch bark if it involves your
law-abiding soul."
"Then it's all settled. You must hurry and take me before the lovely
plants have flowered," said Leslie.
"I'll go day after to-morrow," promised Mr. Winton.
"In order to make our plan work, it is necessary that I keep these orchids
until that time," said Leslie.
"You have a better chance than the lady who drew the osier basket has of
keeping hers," said Mr. Winton. "If I remember I have seen the slippers in
common earth quite a distance from the lake, while the moccasins demand
bog moss, water and swamp mists and dampness."
"I have seen slippers in the woods myself," said Leslie. "I think the
conservatory will do, so they shall go there right now. I have to be fair
to 'Minnie.'"
"Let me carry them for you," offered Douglas, arising.
"'Scuse us. Back in a second, Daddy," said Leslie. "I am interested,
excited and eager to make the test, yet in a sense I do not like it."
"But why?" asked Douglas.
"Can't you see?" countered Leslie.
"No," said Douglas.
"It's shifting my sense of possession," explained the girl. "The slippers
are no longer my beautiful gift from you. They are perishable things that
belong to an Indian squaw. In justice to her, I have to keep them in
perfect condition so that my work may not surpass hers with the
unspeakable art of flower freshness; while instead of thinking them the
loveliest thing in the world, I will now lie awake half the night, no
doubt, studying what I can possibly find that is more beautiful."
Douglas Bruce opened his slow lips, taking a step in her direction.
"Dinner is served," announced her father. He looked inquiringly toward his
daughter. She turned to Douglas.
"Unless you have a previous engagement, you will dine with us, won't you?"
she asked.
"I should be delighted," he said heartily.
When the meal was over and they had returned to the veranda, Leslie
listened quietly while the men talked, most of the time, but when she did
speak, what she said proved that she always had listened to and taken part
in the discussions of men, until she understood and could speak of
business or politics intelligently.
"Have you ever considered an official position, Douglas?" inquired Mr.
Winton. "I have an office within my gift, or so nearly so that I can
control it, and it seems to me that you would be a good man. Surely we
could work together in harmony."
"It never has appealed to me that I wanted work of that nature," answered
Douglas. "It's unusually kind of you to think of me, and make the offer,
but I am satisfied with what I am doing, while there is a steady increase
in my business that gives me confidence."
"What's your objection to office?" asked Mr. Winton.
"That it takes your time from your work," answered Douglas. "That it
changes the nature of your work. That if you let the leaders of a party
secure you a nomination, and the party elect you, you are bound to their
principles, at least there is a tacit understanding that you are, and if
you should happen to be afflicted with principles of your own, then you
have got to sacrifice them."
"'Afflict' is a good word in this instance," said Mr. Winton. "It is
painful to a man of experience to see you young fellows of such great
promise come up and 'kick' yourself half to death 'against the pricks' of
established business, parties, and customs, but half of you do it. In the
end all of you come limping in, poor, disheartened, defeated, and then
swing to the other extreme, by being so willing for a change you'll take
almost anything, and so the dirty jobs naturally fall to you."
"I grant much of that," Douglas said, in his deliberate way, "but happily
I have sufficient annual income from my father's estate to enable me to
live until I become acquainted in a strange city, and have time to
establish the kind of business I should care to handle. I am thinking of
practising corporation law; I specialized in that, so I may have the
pleasure before so very long of going after some of the men who do what
you so aptly term the 'dirty' jobs."
"A repetition of the customary chorus," said Mr. Winton, "differing only
in that it is a little more emphatic than usual. I predict that you will
become an office-holder, having party affiliations, inside ten years."
"Possibly," said Douglas. "But I'll promise you this: it will be a new
office no man ever before has held, in the gift of a party not now in
existence."
"Oh you dreamers!" cried Mr. Winton. "What a wonderful thing it is to be
young and setting out to reform the world, especially on a permanent
income. That's where you surpass most reformers."
"But I said nothing about reform," corrected Douglas. "I said I was
thinking of corporation law."
"I'm accustomed to it; while you wouldn't scare Leslie if you said
'reform,'" remarked Mr. Winton. "She's a reformer herself, you know."
"But only sweat-shops, child labour, civic improvement, preservation of
the wild, and things like that!" cried Leslie so quickly and eagerly, that
both men laughed.
"God be praised!" exclaimed her father.
"God be _fervently_ praised!" echoed her lover.
Before she retired Leslie visited the slippers.
"I'd like to know," she said softly, as she touched a bronze striped
calyx, "I'd like to know how I am to penetrate your location, and find and
fashion anything to outdo you and the squaw, you wood creatures you!" Then
she bent above the flowers and whispered: "Tuck this in the toe of your
slipper! Three times to-night it was in his eyes, and on his tongue, but
his slowness let the moment pass. I can 'bide a wee' for my Scotsman, I
can bide forever, if I must; for it's he only, and no other."
The moccasins soon had been ground to pulp and carried away on a non-skid
tire while at three o'clock in the morning a cross, dishevelled society
woman, in passing from her dressing room to her bed, stumbled over the
osier basket, kicking it from her way.
CHAPTER III
_S.O.S._
Mickey, his responsibility weighing upon him, slept lightly and awakened
early, his first thought of Peaches. He slipped into his clothing and
advancing peered at her through the grayness. His heart beat wildly.
"Aw you poor kid! You poor little kid!" he whispered to himself as he had
fallen into the habit of doing for company. "The scaring, the jolting, the
scouring, and everything were too much for you. You've gone sure! You're
just like them at the morgue. Aw Peaches! I didn't mean to hurt you,
Peaches! I was _trying_ to be good to you. Honest I was, Peaches! Aw----!"
As his fright increased Mickey raised his voice until his last wail
reached the consciousness of the sleeping child. She stirred slightly, her
head moving on the pillow. Mickey almost fell, so great was his relief. He
stepped closer, gazing in awe. The sheared hair had dried in the night,
tumbling into a hundred golden ringlets. The tiny clean face was white, so
white that the blue of the closed eyes showed darkly through the lids, the
blue veins streaked the temples and the little claws lying relaxed on the
sheet. Mickey slowly broke up inside. A big, hard lump grew in his throat.
He shut his lips tight and bored the tears from his eyes with his wiry
fists. He began to mutter his thoughts to regain self-control.
"Gee kid, but you had me scared to the limit!" he said. "I thought you
were gone, sure. Honest I did! Ain't I glad though! But you're the whitest
thing! You're like----I'll tell you what you're like. You're like the lily
flowers in the store windows at Easter. You're white like them, and your
hair is the little bit of gold decorating them. If I'd known it was like
that I wouldn't a-cut it if I'd spent a month untangling it. Honest I
wouldn't, kid! I'm awful sorry! Gee, but it would a-been pretty spread
over mother's pillow."
Mickey gazed, worshipped and rejoiced as he bent lower from time to time
to watch the fluttering breath.
"You're so clean now you just smell good; but I got to go easy. The dirt
covered you so I didn't see how sick you were. You'll go out like a
candle, that's what you'll do. I mustn't let even the wind blow cold on
you. I couldn't stand it if I was to hurt you. I'd just go and lay down
before the cars or jump down an elevator hole. Gee, I'm glad I found you!
I wouldn't trade you for the smartest dog that's being rode around in the
parks. Nor for the parks! Nor the trees! Nor the birds! Nor the buildings!
Nor the swimming places! Nor the automobiles! Nor nothing! Not nothing you
could mention at all! Not eating! Nor seeing! Nor having! Not no single
thing--nothing at all--Lily!
"Lily!" he repeated. "Little snow white lily! Peaches is a good name for
you if you're referring to sweetness, but it doesn't fit for colour. Least
I never saw none white. Lily fits you better. If you'd been a dog, I was
going to name you Partner. But you're mine just as much as if you was a
dog, so I'll name you if I want to. Lily! That's what God made you; that's
what I'm going to call you."
The God thought, evoked by creation, remained in Mickey's heart. He
glanced at the sky clearing from the graying mists of morning, while the
rumble of the streets came up to him in a dull roar.
"O God, I guess I been forgetting my praying some, since mother went. I'd
nothing but myself and I ain't worth bothering You about. But O God, if
You are going to do any _big_ things to-day, why not do some for Lily?
Can't be many that needs it more. If You saw her yesterday, You must see
if You'll look down now, that she's better off, she's worlds better off.
Wonder if You sent me to get her, so she would be better off. Gee, why
didn't You send one of them millyingaires who could a-dressed her up, fed
her and took her to the country where the sun would shine on her. Ain't
never touched her, I bet a liberty-bird. But if You did the sending, You
sent just me, so she's _my_ job, an' I'll do her! But I wish You'd help
me, or send me help, O God. It's an awful job to tackle all alone, for I'm
going to be scared stiff if she gets sick. I can tell by how I felt when I
thought she was gone. So if You sent me God, it's up to You to help me.
Come on now! If You see the sparrows when they fall, You jest good
naturedly ought to see Lily Peaches, 'cause she's always been down, and
she can't ever get up, unless we can help her. Help me all You can O God,
and send me help to help her all I can, 'cause she can use all the help
she can get, and then some! Amen!"
Mickey took one of Peaches' hands in his.
"I ain't the time now, but to-night I got to cut your nails and clean
them, then I guess you'll do to start on," he said as he squeezed the
hand. "Lily! Lily Peaches, wake up! It's morning now. I got to go out with
the papers to earn supper to-night. Wake up! I must wash you and feed you
'fore I go."
Peaches opened her eyes, drawing back startled.
"Easy now!" cautioned Mickey. "Easy now! Don't be scared. Nobody can 'get'
you here! What you want for breakfast, Flowersy-girl? Little Lily white."
An adorable smile illumined the tiny face at the first kindly awakening it
ever had known.
"_You_ won't let them 'get' me, will you?" she triumphed.
"You know it!" he answered conclusively. "Now I'll wash your face, cook
your breakfast, and fix you at the window where maybe you can see birds
going across. Think of that, Lily! Birds!"
"My name's Peaches!" said the child.
"So 'tis!" said Mickey. "But since you arrived to such bettered
conditions, you got to be a lady of fashion. Now Peaches, every single kid
in the Park is named _two_ names, these days. Fellow can't have a foot
race for falling over Mary Elizabeths, and Louisa Ellens. I can't do so
much just to start on, 'cause I can't earn the boodle; fast as I get it,
you're going to line up; but nachally, just at starting you must begin on
the things that are not expensive. Now names don't cost anything, so I can
be giving you six if I like, and you are a lily, so right now I'm naming
you Lily, but two's the style; keep your Peaches, if it suits you. Lily
just flies out of my mouth when I look at you."
This was wonderful. No cursing! No beating! No wailing over a lame-back
brat to feed. Mickey _liked_ to give her breakfast! Mickey named her for
the wonderful flower like granny had picked up before a church one day, a
few weeks ago and in a rare sober moment had carried to her. Mickey had
made her feel clean, so rested, and so fresh she wanted to roll over the
bed. With child impulse she put up her arms. Mickey stooped to them.
"You goin' to have two names too," she said. "You gotter be fash'nable. I
ist love you for everythin', washin', an' breakfast, an' the bed, an'
winder, an' off the floor; oh I just love you _sick_ for the winder, an'
off the floor. You going to be"--she paused in a deep study to think of a
word anywhere nearly adequate, then ended in a burst that was her best
emanation--"lovest! Mickey-lovest!"
She hugged him closely, then lifted her chin and pursed her lips. Mickey
pulled back, a dull colour in his face.
"Now nix on the mushing!" he said. "I'll stand for a hug once a day, but
nix on the smear!"
"You'd let a dog," she whimpered. "I ain't kissed nothin' since granny
sold the doll a lady gave me the time we went to the doctor's, an' took
the money to get drunk on, an' beat me more'n I needed for a change,
'cause I cried for it. I think you might!"
"Aw well, go on then, if you're going to bawl," said Mickey, "but put it
there!"
He stepped as far back as he could, leaned over, and swept the hair from
his forehead, which he brought in range of her lips. He had to brace
himself to keep from flinching at their cold touch and straightened in
relief.
"Now that's over!" he said briskly. "I'll wash you, and get your
breakfast."
"You do a lot of washin', don't you?" inquired Peaches.
"You want the sleep out of your eyes," coaxed Mickey.
He brought the basin and a cloth, washing the child's face and hands
gently as was in his power.
"Flowersy-girl," he said, "if you'd looked last night like you do this
morning, I'd never tackled getting you here in the world. I'd thought
you'd break sure."
"G'wan kid," she said. "I can stand a lot. I been knocked round somepin
awful. She dragged me by one hand or the hair when she was tight, and
threw me in a corner an' took the"--Peaches glanced over the bed, refusing
to call her former estate by the same name--"took the _place_ herself. You
ain't hurting me. You can jerk me a lot."
"I guess you've been jerked enough, Lily Peaches," he said. "I guess
jerkin' ain't going to help your back any. I think we better be easy with
it 'til we lay up the money to Carrel it. He put different legs on a dog,
course he can put a new back on you."
"Dogs doesn't count only with rich folks 'at rides 'em, an' feeds 'em
cake; but where'll you find 'nother girl 'at ull spare her back for me,
Mickey-lovest?" asked Peaches.
"Gee, Lily!" he cried. "I didn't _think_ of that--I wish I hadn't promised
you. Course he could _change_ the backs, but where'd I get one. I'll just
have to let him take mine."
"I don't want no boy's back!" flashed Peaches. "I won't go out an' sell
papers, an' wash you, an' feed you, an' let you stay here in this nice
bed. I don't want no new back, grand like it is here. I won't have no
dog's back, even. I won't have no back!"
"Course I couldn't let you work and take care of me, Lily," he said.
"Course I couldn't! I was just thinking what I _could_ do. I'll write a
letter and ask the Carrel man if a dog's back would do. I could get one
your size at the pound, maybe."
Peaches arose at him with hands set like claws.
"You fool!" she shrieked. "You big damn fool! '_A dog's back!'_ I won't!
You try it an' I'll scratch your eyes out! You stop right now on backs an'
go hell-bent an' get my breakfast! I'm hungry! I like my back! I will have
it! You----"
Mickey snatched his pillow from the floor, using it to press the child
against hers. Then he slipped it down a trifle at one corner and spoke:
"Now you cut that out, Miss Chicken, right off!" he said sternly. "I
wouldn't take no tantrums from a dog, so I won't from you. You'll make
your back worse acting like that, than beating would make it, and 'sides,
if you're going to live with me, you must be a lady. No lady says such
words as you used, and neither does no gentleman, 'cause I don't myself.
Now you'll either say, 'Mickey, please get me my breakfast,' and I'll get
you one with a big surprise, or you'll lay here alone and hungry 'til I
come back to-night. And it'll be a whole day, see?"
"'F I wasn't a pore crippled kid, you wouldn't say that to me," she
wailed.
"And if you wasn't 'a poor crippled kid,' you wouldn't say swearin's to
me," said Mickey, "'cause you know I'd lick the stuffin' out of you, and
if you could see yourself, you'd know that you need stuffin' in, more than
you need it out. I'm 'mazed at you! Forget that you ever heard such stuff,
and be a nice lady, won't you? My time's getting short and I got to go, or
the other kids will sell to my paper men, then we'll have no supper. Now
you say, 'Mickey, please get my breakfast,' like a lady, or you won't get
a bite."
"'Mickey, please get my breakfast,'" she imitated.
Mickey advanced threateningly with the pillow.
"Won't do!" he said. "That ain't like no lady! That's like _me_. You'll
say it like _yourself_, or you won't get it."
She closed her lips, burying her face in her own pillow.
"All right," said Mickey. "Then I'll get my own. If you don't want any,
I'll have twice as much."
He laid the pillow on the foot of the bed, saying politely: "'Scuse me,
Lily, till I get _me_ a bottle of milk."
Soon he returned and with his first glimpse of the bed stood aghast. It
was empty. His eyes searched the room. His pallet on the floor outlined a
tiny form. A dismayed half smile flashed over his face. He took a step
toward her, and then turned, getting out a cloth he had not used since
being alone. Near the bed he set the table and laid a plate, knife, fork
and spoon. Because he was watching Peaches he soon discovered she was
peeking out at him, so he paid strict attention to the burner he was
lighting.
Then he sliced bread, put on a toaster, set the milk on the table, broke
an egg in a saucer, and turned the toast. Soon the odours filled the room,
also a pitiful sound. Mickey knew Peaches must have hurt herself sliding
from the bed, although her arms were strong for the remainder of her body.
She had no way to reach his pallet but to roll across the floor. She might
have bruised herself badly. He was amazed, disgusted, yet compassionate.
He went to her and turned back the comfort.
"You must be speaking a little louder, Lily," he said gently. "I wasn't
quite hearing you."
Only muffled sobbing. Mickey dropped the cover.
"I want my breakfast," said a very small voice.
"You mean, 'Mickey, please _get_ my breakfast,' Flowersy-girl," he
corrected gently.
"Oh I hurt myself so!" Peaches wailed. "Oh Mickey, I fell an' broke my
back clear in two. 'Tain't like rollin' off my rags; oh Mickey, it's so
_far_ to the floor, from your bed! Oh Mickey, even another girl's back, or
yours, or a dog's, or anybody's wouldn't fix it now. It'll hurt for days.
Mickey, why did I ever? Oh what made me? Mickey-lovest, please, please put
me back on the nice fine bed, an' do please give me some of that bread."
Mickey lifted her, crooning incoherent things. He wiped her face and
hands, combed her hair, and pushed the table against the bed. He broke
toast in a glass and poured milk over it. Then he cooked the egg and gave
her that, keeping only half the milk and one slice of bread. He made a
sandwich of more bread, and the cheese, put a banana with it, set a cup of
water in reach, and told her that was her lunch; to eat it when the noon
whistles blew. Then he laid all the picture books he had on the back of
the bed, put the money for his papers in his pocket, and locking her in,
ran down Sunrise Alley fast as he could.
He was one hour late. He had missed two regular customers. They must be
made up and more. Light, air, cleanliness, and kindness would increase
Peaches' appetite, which seemed big now for the size of her body. Mickey's
face was very sober when he allowed himself to think of his undertaking.
How would he make it? He had her now, he simply must succeed. The day was
half over before Mickey began to laugh for no apparent reason. He had
realized that she had not said what he had required of her, after all.
"Gee, I'm up against it," said Mickey. "I didn't s'pose she'd act like
that! I thought she'd keep on being like when she woke up. I never behaved
like that."
Then in swift remorse: "But I had the finest mother a fellow ever had to
tell me, while she ain't had any one, and only got me now, so I'll have to
tell her; course I can't do everything at once. So far as that goes, she
didn't do any worse than the millyingaires' kids in the park who roll
themselves in the dirt, bump their own heads, and scream and fight. I
guess my kid's no worse than other people's. I can train her like mother
did me; then we'll be enough alike we can live together, and even when she
was the worst, I liked her. I liked her cartloads."
So Mickey shouldered the duties of paternity, and began thinking for his
child, his little, neglected, bad, sick child. His wits and feet always
had been nimble; that day he excelled himself. Anxiety as to how much he
must carry home at night to replace what he had spent in moving Peaches to
his room, three extra meals to provide before to-morrow night, something
to interest her through the long day: it was a contract, surely! Mickey
faced it gravely, but he did not flinch. He did not know how it was to be
done, but he did know it must be done. "_Get_" her they should not.
Whatever it had been his mother had feared for him, nameless though the
horror was, from _that_ he must save Lily. Mickey had thought it must be
careless nurses or lack of love. Yesterday's papers had said there were
some children at one of the Homes, no one ever visited; they were sick for
love; would not some kind people come to see them? It must have been
_that_ she feared. He could not possibly know it was the stigma of having
been a charity child she had been combating with all her power.
They had not "got" him; they must not "get" his Lily; yet stirrings in
Mickey's brain told him he was not going to be sufficient, alone. There
were emergencies he did not know how to manage. He must have help. Mickey
revolved the problem in his worried head without reaching a solution. His
necessity drove him. He darted, dodged and took chances. Far down the
street he selected his victim and studied his method of assault as he
approached; for Mickey did victimize people that day. He sold them papers
when they did not want them. He bettered that and sold them papers when
they had them. He snatched up lost papers, smoothed and sold them over.
Every gay picture or broken toy dropped from an automobile he caught up
and pocketed for her.
A woman stumbled alighting from a passing car. Mickey dropped his papers
and sprang forward. Her weight bore him to the pavement, but he kept her
from falling, and even as he felt her on her feet, he snatched under the
wheels for her purse.
"Is that all your stuff, lady?" he asked.
"Thank you! I think so," she said. "Wait a minute!"
To lend help was an hourly occurrence with Mickey. _She_ had been most
particular to teach him that. He was gathering up and smoothing his papers
several of which were soiled. The woman opened the purse he had rescued,
taking therefrom a bill which she offered him.
"Thanks!" said Mickey. "My shoulder is worth considerable to me; but
nothing like that to you, lady!"
"Well!" she said. "Are you refusing the money?"
"Sure!" said Mickey. "I ain't a beggar! Just a balance on my shoulder and
picking up your purse ain't worth an endowment. I'll take five cents each
for three soiled papers, if you say so."
"You amazing boy!" said the woman. "Don't you understand that if you
hadn't offered your shoulder, I might now be lying senseless? You saved me
a hard fall, while my dress would have been ruined. You step over here a
minute. What's your name?"
"Michael O'Halloran," was the answer.
"Where do you live?"
"Sunrise Alley. It's miles on the cars, then some more walking," explained
Mickey.
"Whom do you live with?"
"Myself," said Mickey.
"Alone?"
"All but Peaches," said Mickey. "Lily Peaches."
"Who is Lily Peaches?"
"She's about so long"--Mickey showed how long--"and about so wide"--he
showed how wide--"and white like Easter church flowers. Her back's bad.
I'm her governor; she's my child."
"If you won't take the money for yourself, then take it for her," offered
the woman. "If you have a little sick girl to support, you surely can use
it."
"Umm!" said Mickey. "You kind of ball a fellow up and hang him on the
ropes. Honest you do, lady! I can take care of myself. I know I can,
'cause I've done it three years, but I don't know how I'm goin' to make it
with Lily, for she needs a lot. She may get sick any day, so I ain't sure
how I'm going to manage well with her."
"How long have you taken care of her?"
"Since last night," explained Mickey.
"Oh! How old is she?" Questions seemed endless.
"I don't know," answered Mickey. "Her granny died and left her lying on
rags in a garret. I found her screeching, so I took her to my castle and
washed her, and fed her. You should see her now."
"I believe I should!" said the woman. "Let's go at once. You know Michael,
you can't care for a _girl_. I'll put her in one of the beautiful
Children's Homes--"
"Now nix on the Children's Homes, fair lady!" he cried angrily. "I guess
you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her! I found her first, and she's
_mine!_ I guess you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her to a Children's
Home, where the doctors slice up the poor kids for practice so they'll
know how to get money for doing it to the rich ones. I've _annexed_ Lily
Peaches, and you don't '_get_' her! See?"
"I see," said the woman. "But you're mistaken----"
"'Scuse crossing your wire, but I don't think I _am_," said Mickey. "The
only way you can know, is to have been there yourself. I don't think you
got that kind of a start, or want it for kids of your own. My mother
killed herself to keep me out of it, and if it had been so grand, she'd
_wanted_ me there. Nix on the Orphings' Home talk. Lily ain't going to be
raised in droves, nor flocks, nor herds! See? Lily's going to have a home
of her own, and a man to take care of her by herself."
Mickey backed away, swallowing a big lump in his throat, and blinking down
angry tears.
"'Smorning," he said, "I asked God to help me, and for a minute I was so
glad, 'cause I thought He'd helped by sending _you_, so you could tell me
how to do; but if God can't beat _you_, I can get along by myself."
"You _can't_ take care of a girl by yourself," she insisted. "The _law_
won't allow you."
"Oh can't I?" scoffed Mickey. "Well you're mistaken, 'cause I am! And
getting along bully! You ought to seen her last night, and then this
morning. Next time I yell for help, I won't ask to have anybody sent, I'll
ask Him to help me save our souls, myself. Ever see that big, white,
wonderful Jesus at the Cathedral door, ma'am, holding the little child in
His arms so loving? I don't s'pose He stopped to ask whether it was a
girl, or a boy, 'fore He took it up; He just opened his arms to the first
_child_ that _needed_ Him. And if I remember right, He didn't say: 'Suffer
little children to be sent to Orphings' Homes.' Mammy never read it to me
_that_ way. It was suffer them to come to 'Me,' and be took up, and held
tender. See? Nix on the Orphings' Home people. They ain't in my class.
Beaucheous lady, adoo! Farewell! I depart!"
Mickey wheeled, vanishing. It was a wonderful exhibition of curves, leaps,
and darts. He paused for breath when he felt safe.
"So that's the dope!" he marvelled. "I can't take care of a girl? Going to
take her away from me? I'd like to know _why?_ Men all the time take care
of women. I see boys taking care of girls I know their mothers left with
them, every day--I'd like to know _why_. Mother said I was to take care of
_her_. She said that's what men were made _for_. 'Cause _he didn't_ take
care of her, was why she was glad my father was _dead_. I guess I know
what I'm doing! But I've learned something! Nix on the easy talk after
this; and telling anybody you meet all you know. Shut mouth from now on.
'What's your name, little boy?' 'Andrew Carnegie.' 'Where d'you live?'
'Castle on the Hudson!' A mouth just tight shut about Lily, after this!
And nix on the Swell Dames! Next one can bust her crust for all I care! I
won't touch her!"
On the instant, precisely that thing occurred, at Mickey's very feet. With
his lips not yet closed, he knelt to shove his papers under a woman's
head, then went racing up the stone steps she had rolled down, his quick
eye catching and avoiding the bit of fruit on which she had slipped. He
returned in a second with help. As the porter lifted the inert body,
Mickey slid his hands under her head, and advised: "Keep her straight!"
Into one of the big hospitals he helped carry a blue and white clad nurse,
on and on, up elevators and into a white porcelain room where they laid
her on a glass table. Mickey watched with frightened eyes. Doctors and
nurses came running. He stood waiting for his papers. He was rather sick,
yet he remembered he had five there he must sell.
"Better clear out of here now!" suggested a surgeon.
"My papers!" said Mickey. "She fell right cross my feet. I slid them
under, to make her head more pillowlike on the stones. Maybe I can sell
some of them."
The surgeon motioned to a nurse at the door.
"Take this youngster to the office and pay him for the papers he has
spoiled," he ordered.
"Will she--is she going to----?" wavered Mickey.
"I'm not sure," said the surgeon. "From the bleeding probably concussion;
but she will live. Do you know how she came to fall?"
"There was a smear of something on the steps she didn't see," explained
Mickey.
"Thank you! Go with the nurse," said the surgeon. Then to an attendant:
"Take Miss Alden's number, and see to her case. She was going after
something."
Mickey turned back. "Paper, maybe," he suggested, pointing to her closed
hand. The surgeon opened it and found a nickel. He handed it to Mickey.
"If you have a clean one left, let this nurse take it to Miss Alden's
case, and say she has been assigned other duty. See to sending a
substitute at once."
Every paper proved to be marked.
"I can bring you a fresh one in a second, lady," offered Mickey. "I got
the money."
"All right," she said. "Wait with it in the office and then I'll pay you."
"I'm sent for a paper. I'm to be let in as soon as I get it," announced
Mickey to the porter. "I ain't taking chances of being turned down," he
said to himself, as he stopped a second to clean the step.
He returned and was waiting when the nurse came. She was young and fair
faced; her hair was golden, and as she paid Mickey for his papers he
wondered how soon he could have Lily looking like her. He took one long
survey as he pocketed the money, thinking he would rush home at once; but
he wanted to fix in his mind how Lily must appear, to be right, for he
thought a nurse in the hospital would be right.
The nurse knew she was beautiful, and to her Mickey's long look was
tribute, male tribute; a small male indeed, but such a winning one; so she
took the occasion to be her loveliest, and smile her most attractive
smile. Mickey surrendered. He thought she was like an angel, that made him
think of Heaven, Heaven made him think of God, God made him think of his
call for help that morning, the call made him think of the answer, the
beautiful woman before him made him think that possibly _she_ might be the
answer instead of the other one. He rather doubted it, but it might be a
chance. Mickey was alert for chances for Peaches, so he smiled again, then
he asked: "Are you in such an awful hurry?"
"I think we owe you more than merely paying for your papers," she said.
"What is it?"
Again Mickey showed how long and how wide Lily was. "And with hair like
yours, and eyes and cheeks that would be, if she had her chance, and
nobody to give her that chance but just me," he said. "Me and Lily are all
each other's got," he explained hastily. "We're _home_ folks. We're a
family. We don't want no bunching in corps and squads. We're nix on the
Orphings' Home business; but you _must know_, ma'am--would you, oh would
you tell me just how I should be taking care of her? I'm doing everything
like my mother did to me; but I was well and strong. Maybe Lily, being a
girl, should have things different. A-body so beautiful as you, would tell
me, wouldn't you?"
Then a miracle happened. The nurse, so clean she smelled like a drug
store, so lovely she shone as a sunrise, laid an arm across Mickey's
shoulders. "You come with me," she said. She went to a little room, and
all alone she asked Mickey questions; with his eyes straight on hers, he
answered. She told him surely he could take care of Lily. She explained
how. She rang for a basket and packed it full of things he must have,
showing him how to use them. She told him to come each Saturday at four
o'clock, as she was going off duty, and tell her how he was getting along.
She gave him a thermometer, and told him how to learn if the child had
fever. She told him about food, and she put in an ointment, instructing
him to rub the little back with it, so the bed would not be so tiresome.
She showed him how to arrange the pillows; when he left, the tears were
rolling down Mickey's cheeks. Both of them were so touched she laid her
arm across his shoulder again and went as far as the elevator, while a
passport to her at any time was in his pocket.
"I 'spect other folks tell you you are beautiful like flowers, or music,
or colours," said Mickey in farewell, "but you look like a window in
Heaven to me, and I can see right through you to God and all the beautiful
angels; but what gets me is why the other one had to bust her crust, to
make you come true!"
The nurse was laughing and wiping her eyes at the same time. Mickey
gripped the basket until his hands were stiff as he sped homeward at least
two hours early and happy about it. At the last grocery he remembered
every word and bought bread, milk, and fruit with care "for a sick lady"
he explained, so the grocer, who knew him, used care. Triumphing Mickey
climbed the stairs. He paused a second in deep thought at the foot of the
last flight, then ascended whistling to let Peaches know that he was
coming, then on his threshold recited:
"_One't a little kid named Lily,
Was so sweet she'd knock you silly,
Yellow hair in millying curls,
Beat a mile all other girls._"
She was on his bed; she was on his pillow; she had been lonely; both arms
were stretched toward him.
"Mickey, hurry!" she cried. "Mickey, lemme hold you 'til I'm sure! Mickey,
all day I didn't hardly durst breathe, fear the door'd open an' they'd
'_get_' me. Oh Mickey, you won't let them, will you?"
Mickey dropped his bundles and ran to the bed. This time he did not shrink
from her wavering clasp. It was delight to come home to something alive,
something that belonged to him, something to share with, something to work
and think for, something that depended upon him.
"Now nix on the scare talk," he comforted. "Forget it! I've lived here
three years alone, and not a single time has anybody come to 'get' me, so
they won't you. There's only one thing can happen us. If I get sick or
spend too much on eating, and don't pay the rent, the man that owns this
building will fire us out. If we, _if we_" Mickey repeated impressively,
"pay our rent regular, in advance, nobody will _ever_ come, not _ever_, so
don't worry."
"Then what's all them bundles?" fretted Peaches. "You ortn't a-got so
much. You'll never get the _next_ rent paid! They'll 'get' me sure."
"Now throttle your engine," advised Mickey. "Stop your car! Smash down on
the brakes! They are things the city you reside in furnishes its
taxpayers, or something like that. I pay my rent, so this is my _share_,
and it's things for you: to make you comfortable. Which are you worst--
tiredest, or hungriest, or hottest?"
"I don't know," she said.
"Then I'll make a clean get-a-way," said Mickey. "Washing is cooling; and
it freshens you up a lot."
So Mickey brought his basin again, bathing the tired child gently as any
woman could have done it.
"See what I got!" he cried as he opened bundles and explained. "I'm going
to see if you have fever."
Peaches rebelled at the thermometer.
"Now come on in," urged Mickey. "Slide straight home to your base! If I'm
going to take care of you, I'm going to right. You can't lay here eating
wrong things if you have _fever_. No-sir-ee! You don't get to see in any
more of these bundles, nor any supper, nor talked to any more, 'til you
put this little glass thing under your tongue and hold it there just this
way"--Mickey showed how--"three minutes by the clock, then I'll know what
to do with you next. I'll sit beside you, and hold your hands, and tell
you about the pretty lady that sent it."
Mickey wiped the thermometer on the sheet, then presented it. Peaches took
one long look at him and opened her lips. Mickey inserted the tube, set
the clock in sight, and taking both her hands he held them closely and
talked as fast as he could to keep her from using them. He had not half
finished the day when the time was up. If he had done it right, Peaches
had very little, if any, fever.
"Now turn over so I can rub your back to make it all nice and rested," he
said. "And then I'll get supper."
"I don't want my back rubbed," she protested. "My back's all right now."
"Nothing to do with going to have it rubbed," said Mickey. "It would be a
silly girl who would have a back that wouldn't walk, and then wouldn't
even try having it doctored, so that it would get better. Just try Lily,
and if it doesn't _help_, I won't do it any more."
Peaches took another long look at Mickey, questioning in nature, then
turned her back to him.
"Gosh, kid! Your back looks just like horses' going to the fertilizer
plant," he said.
"Ain't that swearin's?" asked Peaches promptly.
"First-cousin," answered Mickey. "'Scuse me Lily. If you could see your
back, you'd 'scuse worse than that."
"Feelin' ull do fer me," said Peaches. "I live wid it." "Honest kid, I'm
scared to touch you," he wavered.
"Aw g'wan!" said Peaches. "I ain't goin' screechin' even if you hurt
awful, an' you touch like a sparrer lookin' for crumbs. Mickey, can we put
out a few?"
"For the sparrows? Sure!" cried Mickey. "They're the ones that God sees
especial when they fall. Sure! Put out some in a minute. Still now!"
Mickey poured on ointment, then began softly rubbing it into the dreadful
back. His face was drawn with anxiety and filled with horror. He was
afraid, but the nurse said this he should do, while Mickey's first lesson
had been implicit obedience. So he rubbed gently as he was fearful; when
Peaches made no complaint, a little stronger, and a little stronger, until
he was tired. Then he covered her, telling her to lie on it, and see how
it felt. Peaches looked at him with wondering eyes.
"Mickey," she said, "nothin" in all my life ever felt like that, an' the
nice cool washin' you do. Mickey-lovest, nex' time I act mean 'bout what
you want to do to me, slap me good, an' hold me, an' go on an' _do_ it!"
"Now nix on the beating," said Mickey. "I never had any from my mother;
but the kids who lost sales to me took my nickels, and give me plenty. You
ought to know, Lily, that I'm trying hard as I can to make you feel good;
and to take care of you. What I want to do, I think will make you
_better_, so I'm just nachally going to _do_ it, 'cause you're mine, and
you got to do what I say. But I won't say anything that'll hurt you and
make you worse. If you must take time to think new things over, I can
wait; but I can't hit you Lily, you're too little, too sick, and I like
you too well. I wish you'd be a lady! I wish you wouldn't ever be bad
again!"
"Hoh I feel so good!" Peaches stretched like a kitten. "Mickey, bet I can
walk 'fore long if you do that often! Mickey, I just love you, an' _love_
you. Mickey, say that at the door over again."
"What?" queried Mickey.
"'One't a little kid named Lily,'" prompted Peaches.
Mickey laughed and obeyed.
Neatly he put away all that had been supplied him; before lighting the
burner he gave Lily a drink of milk and tried arranging both pillows to
prop her up as he had been shown. When the water boiled he dropped in two
bouillon cubes the nurse had given him, and set out some crackers he had
bought. He put the milk in two cups, and when he cut the bread, he
carefully collected every crumb, putting it on the sill in the hope that a
bird might come. The thieving sparrows, used to watching windows and
stealing from stores set out to cool, were soon there. Peaches, to whom
anything with feathers was a bird, was filled with joy. The odour of the
broth was delicious. Mickey danced, turned handsprings, and made the
funniest remarks. Then he fixed the bowl on a paper, broke the crackers in
her broth, growing unspeakably happy at her delight as she tasted it.
"Every Saturday you get a box of that from the Nurse Lady," he boasted.
"Pretty soon you'll be so fat I can't carry you and so well you can have
supper ready when I come, then we can----" Mickey stopped short. He had
started to say, "go to the parks," but if other ladies were like the first
one he had talked with, and if, as she said, the law would not let him
keep Peaches, he had better not try to take her where people would see
her.
"Can what?" asked Peaches.
"Have the most fun!" explained Mickey. "We can sit in the window to see
the sky and birds; you can have the shears and cut pictures from the
papers I'll bring you, while I'll read all my story books to you. I got
three that She gave me for Christmas presents, so I could learn to read
them----"
"Mickey could I ever learn to read them?"
"Sure!" cried Mickey. "Surest thing you know! You are awful smart, Lily.
You can learn in no time, and then you can read while I'm gone, so it
won't seem long. I'll teach you. Mother taught me. I can read the papers I
sell. Honest I can. I often pick up torn ones I can bring to you. It's
lots of fun to know what's going on. I sell many more by being able to
tell what's in them than kids who can't read. I look all over the front
page and make up a spiel on the cars. I always fold my papers neat and
keep them clean. To-day it was like this: 'Here's your nice, clean,
morning paper! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized!'"
"Mickey what does that mean?" asked Peaches.
"Now you see how it comes in!" said Mickey. "If you could read the papers,
you'd _know_. 'Sterilized,' is what they do to the milk in hot weather to
save the slum kids. That's us, Lily. 'Deodorized,' is taking the bad smell
out of things. 'Vulcanized,' is something they do to stiffen things. I
guess it's what your back needs."
"Is all them things done to the papers?" asked Peaches.
"Well, not _all_ of them," laughed Mickey, "but they are starting in on
_some_ of them, and all would be a good thing. The other kids who can't
read don't know those words, so I study them out and use them; it catches
the crowd for they laugh, and then pay me for making them. See? This world
down on the streets is in such a mix a laugh is the scarcest thing there
is; so they _pay_ for it. No grouchy, sad-cat-working-on-your-sympathy kid
sells many. I can beat one with a laugh every inning."
"What's 'inning,' Mickey?" came the next question.
"Playin' a side at a ball game. Now Ty Cobb----"
"Go on with what you say about the papers," interrupted Peaches.
"All right!" said Mickey. "'Here's your nice, clean morning paper!
Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! I _like_ to sell them. You _like_ to
buy them! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ Latest war news!
Japan takes England! England takes France! France takes Germany! Germany
takes Belgium! Belgium takes the cake! Here's your paper! Nice clean
paper! Rush this way! Change your change for a paper! Yes, I _like_ to
sell them----' and on and on that way all day, 'til they're gone and every
one I pick up and smooth out is gone, and if they're torn and dirty, I
carry them back on the cars and sell them for pennies to the poor folks
walking home."
"Mickey, will we be slum kids always?" she asked.
"Not on your tin type!" cried Mickey.
"If this is slum kids, I like it!" protested Peaches.
"Well, Sunrise Alley ain't so slummy as where you was, Lily," explained
the boy.
"This is grand," said Peaches "Fine an' grand! No lady needn't have
better!"
"She wouldn't say so," said Mickey. "But Lily, you got something most of
the millyingaire ladies hasn't."
"What Mickey?" she asked interestedly.
"One man all to yourself, who will do what you want, if you ask pretty,
and he ain't going to drag you 'round and make you do things you don't
like to, and hit you, and swear at you, and get drunk. Gee, I bet the
worst you ever had didn't hurt more than I've seen some of the swell dames
hurt sometimes. It'd make you sick Lily."
"I guess 'at it would," said the girl, "'cause granny told me the same
thing. Lots of times she said 'at she couldn't see so much in bein' rich
if you had to be treated like she saw rich ladies. She said all they got
out of it was nice dresses an' struttin' when their men wasn't 'round;
nelse the money was theirn, an' nen they made the men pay. She said it was
'bout half and half."
"So 'tis!" cried Mickey. "Tell you Lily, don't let's ever _be_ rich! Let's
just have enough."
"Mickey, what is 'enough?'" asked Peaches.
"Why plenty, but not too much!" explained Mickey judicially. "Not enough
to fight over! Just enough to be comfortable."
"Mickey, I'm comf'rable as nangel now."
"Gee, I'm glad, Lily," said Mickey in deep satisfaction. "Maybe He heard
my S.O.S. after all, and you just being _comfortable_ is the answer."
CHAPTER IV
"_Bearer of Morning_"
"Douglas," called Leslie over the telephone, "I have developed nerves."
"Why?" inquired he.
"Dad has just come in with a pair of waist-high boots, and a scalping
knife, I think," answered Leslie. "Are you going to bring a blanket and a
war bonnet?"
"The blanket, I can; the bonnet, I might," said Douglas.
"How early will you be ready?" she asked.
"Whenever you say," he replied.
"Five?" she queried.
"Very well!" he answered. "And Leslie, I would suggest a sweater, short
stout skirts, and heavy gloves. Do you know if you are susceptible to
poison vines?"
"I have handled anything wild as I pleased all my life," she said. "I am
sure there is no danger from that source; but Douglas, did you ever hear
of, or see, a massasauga?"
"You are perfectly safe on that score," he said. "I am going along
especially to take care of you."
"All right, then I won't be afraid of snakes," she said.
"I have waders, too," he said, "and I'm going into the swamp with you.
Wherever you wish to go, I will precede you and test the footing."
"Very well! I have lingered on the borders long enough.
To-morrow will be my initiation. By night I'll have learned the state of
my artistic ability with natural resources, and I'll know whether the
heart of the swamp is the loveliest sight I ever have seen, and I will
have proved how I 'line up' with a squaw-woman."
"Leslie, I'm now reading a most interesting human document," said Douglas,
"and in it I have reached the place where Indians in the heart of terrific
winter killed and heaped up a pile of deer in early day in Minnesota, then
went to camp rejoicing, while their squaws were left to walk twenty-eight
miles and each carry back on her shoulder a deer frozen stiff. Leslie, you
don't line up! You are not expected to."
"Do you believe that, Douglas?" asked the girl.
"It's history dear, not fiction," he answered.
"Douglas!" she warned.
"Leslie, I beg your pardon! That was a slip!" cried he.
"Oh!" she breathed.
"Leslie, will you do something for me?" he questioned.
"What?" she retorted.
"Listen with one ear, stop the other, and tell me what you hear," he
ordered.
"Yes," she said.
"Did you hear, Leslie?" he asked anxiously.
"I heard something, I don't know what," she answered.
"Can you describe it, Leslie?"
"Just a rushing, beating sound! What is it Douglas?"
"My heart, Leslie, sending to you each throbbing stroke of my manhood
pouring out its love for you."
"Oh-h-h!" cried the astonished girl.
"Will you listen again, Leslie?" begged the man.
"No!" she said.
"You don't want to hear what my heart has to say to you?" he asked.
"Not over a wire! Not so far away!" she panted.
"Then I'll shorten the distance. I'm coming, Leslie!"
"What shall I do?" she gasped. She stared around her, trying to decide
whether she should follow her impulse to hide, when her father entered the
room.
"Daddy," she cried, "if you want to be nice to me, go away a little while.
Go somewhere a few minutes and stay until I call you."
"Leslie, what's the matter?" he asked.
"I've been talking to Douglas, and Daddy, he's coming like a charging
Highland trooper. Daddy, I heard him drop the receiver and start. Please,
please go away a minute. Even the dearest father in the world can't do
anything now! We must settle this ourselves."
"I'm not to be allowed a word?" he protested.
"Daddy, you've had two years! If you know anything to say against Douglas
and haven't said it in all that time, why should you begin now? You
couldn't help knowing! Daddy, do go! There he is! I hear him!"
Mr. Winton took his daughter in his arms, kissed her tenderly, and left
the room. A second later Douglas Bruce entered. Rushing to Leslie he
caught her to his breast roughly, while with a strong hand he pressed her
ear against his heart.
"Now you listen, my girl!" he cried. "You listen at close range."
Leslie remained quiet a long second. Then she lifted her face, adorable,
misty eyed and tenderly smiling.
"Douglas, I never listened to a heart before! How do I know what it is
saying? I can't tell whether it is talking about me or protesting against
the way you've been rushing around!" "No levity, my lady," he said grimly.
"This is serious business. You listen while I interpret. I love you,
Leslie! Every beat, every stroke, love for you. I claim you! My mate! My
wife! I want you!"
He held her from him, looking into her eyes.
"Now Leslie, the answer!" he cried. "May I listen to it or will you tell
me? _Is_ there any answer? What is _your_ heart saying? May I hear or will
you tell me?"
"I want to tell you!" said the girl. "I love you, Douglas! Every beat,
every stroke, love for you."
Early the next morning they inspected their equipment carefully, then
drove north to the tamarack swamp, where they arranged that Leslie and
Douglas were to hunt material, while Mr. Winton and the driver went to the
nearest Indian settlement to find the squaw who had made the other basket,
and bring her to the swamp.
If you have experienced the same emotions you will know how Douglas and
Leslie felt when hand in hand they entered the swamp on a perfect morning
in late May. If you have not, mere words are inadequate.
Through fern and brake head high, through sumac, willow, elder,
buttonbush, gold-yellow and blood-red osiers, past northern holly, over
spongy moss carpet of palest silvery green up-piled for ages, over red-
veined pitcher plants spilling their fullness, among scraggy, odorous
tamaracks, beneath which cranberries and rosemary were blooming; through
ethereal pale mists of dawn, in their ears lark songs of morning from the
fields, hermit thrushes in the swamp, bell birds tolling molten notes, in
a minor strain a swelling chorus of sparrows, titmice, warblers, vireos,
went two strong, healthy young people newly promised for "better or
worse." They could only look, stammer, flush, and utter broken
exclamations, all about "better." They could not remotely conceive that
life might serve them the cruel trick of "worse."
Leslie sank to her knees. Douglas lifted her up, set her on the firmest
location he could see, adoring her with his eyes and reverent touch. Since
that first rough grasp as he drew her to him, Leslie had felt positively
fragile in his hands. She smiled at him her most beautiful smile when
wide-eyed with emotion.
"Douglas, why just now, when you've waited two years?" she asked.
"Wanted a degree of success to offer," he answered.
Leslie disdained the need for success.
"Wanted you to have time to know me as completely as possible."
Leslie intimated that she could learn faster.
"Wanted to have the acknowledged right to put my body between yours and
any danger this swamp might have to offer to-day."
"Exactly what I thought!" cried she.
"Wise girl," commented the man.
"Douglas, I must hurry!" said Leslie. "It may take a long time to find the
flowers I want, while I've no idea what I shall do for a basket. I saw
osiers yellow and red in quantities, but where are the orchids?"
"We must make our way farther in and search," he said.
"Douglas, listen!" breathed Leslie.
"I hear exquisite music," he answered.
"But don't you recognize it?" she cried.
"It does seem familiar, but I am not sufficiently schooled in music----"
The girl began softly to whistle.
"By Jove!" cried the man. "What is that Leslie?"
"Di Provenza, from Traviata," she answered. "But I must stop listening for
birds Douglas, when I can scarcely watch for flowers or vines. I have to
keep all the time looking to make sure that you are really my man."
"And I, that you are my woman. Leslie, that expression and this location,
the fact that you are in competition with a squaw and the Indian talk we
have indulged in lately, all conspire to remind me that a few days ago,
while I was still a 'searcher' myself, I read a poem called 'Song of the
Search' that was the biggest thing of its kind that I have yet found in
our language. It was so great that I reread it until I am sure I can do it
justice. Listen my 'Bearer of Morning,' my 'Bringer of Song----'"
Douglas stood straight as the tamaracks, his feet sinking in "the little
moss," while from his heart he quoted Constance Skinner's wonderful poem:
"_I descend through the forest alone.
Rose-flushed are the willows, stark and a-quiver,
In the warm sudden grasp of Spring;
Like a woman when her lover has suddenly, swiftly taken her.
I hear the secret rustle of little leaves,
Waiting to be born.
The air is a wind of love
From the wings of eagles mating----
O eagles, my sky is dark with your wings!
The hills and the waters pity me,
The pine-trees reproach me.
The little moss whispers under my feet,
"Son of Earth, Brother,
Why comest thou hither alone?"
Oh, the wolf has his mate on the mountain----
Where art thou, Spring-daughter?
I tremble with love as reeds by the river,
I burn as the dusk in the red-tented west,
I call thee aloud as the deer calls the doe,
I await thee as hills wait the morning,
I desire thee as eagles the storm;
I yearn to thy breast as night to the sea,
I claim thee as the silence claims the stars.
O Earth, Earth, great Earth,
Mate of God and mother of me,
Say, where is she, the Bearer of Morning,
My Bringer of Song?
Love in me waits to be born,
Where is She, the Woman?_
"'Where is she, the Woman?' The answer is 'Here!' 'Bearer of Morning,'
'Bringer of Song,' I adore you!"
"Oh Douglas, how beautiful!" cried Leslie. "My Man, can we think of
anything save ourselves to-day? Can we make that basket?"
"It would be a bad start to give up our first undertaking together," he
said.
"Of course!" she cried. "We must! We simply must find things. Father may
call any minute. Let go my hand and follow behind me. Keep close,
Douglas!"
"I should go before to clear the way," he suggested.
"No, I may miss rare flowers if you do," she objected.
"Go slowly, so I can watch before and overhead."
"Yes!" she answered. "There! There, Douglas!"
"Ah! There they are!" he exulted.
"But I can't take them!" she protested.
"Only a few, Leslie. Look before you! See how many there are!" he said.
"Douglas, could there be more wonderful flowers than the moccasins and
slippers?" she asked.
"Scarcely more wonderful; there might be more delicate and lovely!"
"Farther! Let us go farther!" she urged.
Her cry closed the man's arms around her.
Then there was a long silence during which they stood on the edge of a
small open space breathlessly worshipping, but it was the Almighty they
were now adoring. Here the moss lay in a flat carpet, tinted deeper green.
Water willow rolled its ragged reddish-tan hoops, with swelling bloom and
leaf buds. Overflowing pitcher plants grew in irregular beds, on slender
stems, lifting high their flat buds. But scattered in groups here and
there, sometimes with massed similar colours, sometimes in clumps and
variegated patches, stood the rare, early fringed orchis, some almost
white, others pale lavender and again the deeper colour of the moccasins;
while everywhere on stems, some a foot high, nodded the exquisite lavender
and white showy orchis.
"Count!" he commanded.
Leslie pointed a slender finger indicating each as she spoke: "One, two,
three--thirty-two, under the sweep of your arms, Douglas! And more! More
by the hundred! Surely if we are careful not to kill them, the Lord won't
mind if we take out a few for people to see, will He?"
"He must have made them to be seen!" said Douglas.
"And worshipped!" cried the girl.
"Douglas, why didn't the squaw----?" asked Leslie.
"Maybe she didn't come this far," he said. "Perhaps she knows by
experience that these are too fragile to remove. You may not be able to
handle them, Leslie."
"I'm going to try," she said. "But first I must make my basket. We'll go
back to the osiers to weave it and then come here to fill it. Oh Douglas!
Did you ever see such flower perfection in all your life?"
"Only in books! In my home country applied botany is a part of every man's
education. I never have seen ragged or fringed orchids growing before. I
have read of many fruitless searches for the white ones."
"So have I. They seem to be the rarest. Douglas, look there!"
"There" was a group of purple-lavender, white-lipped bloom, made by years
of spreading from one root, until above the rank moss and beneath the dark
tamarack branch the picture appeared inconceivably delicate.
"Yes! The most exquisite flowers I ever have seen!"
"And there, Douglas!" She pointed to another group. "Just the shade of the
lavender on the toe of the moccasin--and in a great ragged mass! Would any
one believe it?"
"Not without seeing it," he said emphatically.
"And there, Douglas! Exactly the colour of the moccasins--see that
cluster! There are no words, Douglas!"
"Shall you go farther?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "I'm going back to weave my basket. There is nothing
to surpass the orchids in rarity and wondrous beauty."
"Good!" he cried. "I'll go ahead and you follow."
So they returned to the osiers. Leslie pondered deeply a few seconds, then
resolutely putting Douglas aside, she began cutting armloads of pale
yellow osiers. Finding a suitable place to work, she swiftly and deftly
selected perfect, straight evenly coloured ones, cutting them the same
length, then binding the tip ends firmly with raffia she had brought to
substitute for grass. Then with fine slips she began weaving, gradually
spreading the twigs while inwardly giving thanks for the lessons she had
taken in basketry. At last she held up a big, pointed, yellow basket.
"Ready!" she said.
"Beautiful!" cried Douglas.
Leslie carefully lined the basket with moss in which the flowers grew,
working the heads between the open spaces she had left. She bent three
twigs, dividing her basket top in exact thirds. One of these she filled
with the whitest, one with stronger, and one with the deepest lavender,
placing the tallest plants in the centre so that the outside ones would
show completely. Then she lifted by the root exquisite showy orchis,
lavender-hooded, white-lipped, the tiniest plants she could select and set
them around the edge. She bedded the moss-wrapped roots in the basket and
began bordering the rim and entwining the handle with a delicate vine. She
looked up at Douglas, her face thrilled with triumph, flushed with
exertion, her eyes humid with feeling, while he gazed at her stirred to
the depth of his heart with sympathy and the wonder of possession.
"'Bearer of Morning,' you win!" he cried triumphantly. "There is no use
going farther. Let me carry that to your father, and he too will say so."
"I have a reason for working out our plan," she said.
"Yes? May I know?" he asked.
"Surely!" she answered. "You remember what you told me about the Minturns.
I can't live in a city and not have my feelings harrowed every day, and
while I'd like to change everything wrong, I know I can't all of it, so
what I can't cope with must be put aside; but this refuses, it is
insistent. When you really think of it, that is so _dreadful_, Douglas. If
they once felt what we do now, could it _all_ go? There must be something
left! You mention him oftener than any other one man, so you must admire
him deeply; I know her as well as any woman I meet in society, better than
most; I had thought of asking them to be the judges. She is interested in
music and art; it would please her and be perfectly natural for me to ask
her; you are on intimate terms with him from your offices being opposite;
there could be no suspicion of any ulterior motive in having them. I don't
know that it would accomplish anything, but it would let them know, to
begin with, that we consider them friends; so it would be natural for them
to come with us; if we can't manage more than that to-day, it will give us
ground to try again."
"Splendid!" he said. "A splendid plan! It would let them see that at least
our part of the world thinks of them together, and expects them to be
friends. Splendid!"
"I have finished," said Leslie.
"I quite agree," answered Douglas. "No one could do better. That is the
ultimate beauty of the swamp made manifest. There is the horn! Your father
is waiting."
A surprise was also waiting. Mr. Winton had not only found the squaw who
brought the first basket, but he had made her understand so thoroughly
what was wanted that she had come with him, while at his suggestion she
had replaced the moccasin basket as exactly as she could and also made an
effort at decoration. She was smiling woodenly when Leslie and Douglas
approached, but as Leslie's father glimpsed and cried out over her basket,
the squaw frowned, drawing back.
"Where you find 'em?" she demanded.
"In the swamp!" Leslie nodded backward.
The squaw grunted disapprovingly. "Lowry no buy 'em! Sell slipper! Sell
moccasin! No sell weed!"
Leslie looked with shining eyes at her father.
"That lies with Lowry," he said. "I'll drive you there and bring you back,
and you'll have the ride and the money for your basket. That's all that
concerns you. We won't come here to make any more."
The squaw smiled again, so they started to the city. They drove straight
to the Winton residence for the slippers. While Mr. Winton and the squaw
went to take the baskets to Lowry's and leave Douglas at his office,
Leslie in his car went to Mrs. Minturn's.
"Don't think I'm crazy," laughed Leslie, as Mrs. Minturn came down to meet
her. "I want to use your exquisite taste and art instinct a few minutes.
Please do come with me. We've a question up. You know the wonderful stuff
the Indians bring down from the swamps to sell on the streets and to the
florists?"
"Indeed yes! I often buy of them in the spring. I love the wild white
violets especially. What is it you want?"
"Why you see," said Leslie, looking eagerly at Mrs. Minturn, "you see
there are three flower baskets at Lowry's. Douglas Bruce is going to buy
me the one I want most for a present, to celebrate a very important
occasion, and I can't tell which is most artistic. I want you to decide.
Your judgment is so unfailing. Will you come? Only a little spin!"
"Leslie, you aren't by any chance asking me to select your betrothal gift,
are you?"
Leslie's face was rose-flushed smiling wonderment. She had hastily slipped
off her swamp costume. Joy that seemed as if it must be imperishable shone
on her brightly illumined face. With tightly closed, smile-curved lips she
vigorously nodded. The elder woman bent to kiss her.
"Of course I'll come!" she laughed. "I feel thrilled, and flattered. And I
congratulate you sincerely. Bruce is a fine man. He'll make a big fortune
soon."
"Oh I hope not!" said Leslie.
"Are you crazy?" demanded Mrs. Minturn. "You said you didn't want me to
think you so!"
"You see," said Leslie, "Mr. Bruce has a living income; so have I, from my
mother. Fortunes seem to me to work more trouble than they do good. I
believe poor folks are happiest, they get most out of life, and after all
what gives deep, heart-felt joy, is the thing to live for, isn't it? But
we must hurry. Mr. Lowry didn't promise to hold the flowers long."
"I'll be ready in a minute, but I see where Douglas Bruce is giving you
wrong ideas," said Mrs. Minturn. "He needs a good talking to. Money is the
only thing worth while, and the comfort and the pleasure it brings.
Without it you are crippled, handicapped, a slave crawling while others
step over you. I'll convince _him!_ Back in a minute."
When Mrs. Minturn returned she was in a delightful mood, her face eager,
her dress beautiful. Leslie wondered if this woman ever had known a care,
then remembered that not long before she had lost a little daughter.
Leslie explained as they went swiftly through the streets.
"You won't mind waiting only a second until I run up to Mr. Bruce's
offices?" she asked.
He was ready, so together they stopped at Mr. Minturn's door. Douglas
whispered: "Watch the office boy. He is Minturn's Little Brother I told
you about."
Leslie nodded and entered gaily.
"Please ask Mr. Minturn if he will see Miss Winton and Mr. Douglas Bruce a
minute?" she said.
An alert, bright-faced lad bowed politely, laid aside a book and entered
the inner office.
"Now let me!" said Leslie. "Good May, Mr. Minturn!" she cried. "Positively
enchanting! Take that forbidding look off your face. Come for a few
minutes Maying! It will do you much good, and me more. All my friends are
pleasuring me to-day. So I want as good a friend of Mr. Bruce as you, to
be in something we have planned. You just must!"
"Has something delightful happened?" asked Mr. Minturn, retaining the hand
Leslie offered him as he turned to Douglas Bruce.
"You must ask Miss Winton," he said.
Mr. Minturn's eyes questioned her sparkling face, while again with closed
lips she nodded. "My most earnest congratulations to each of you. May life
grant you even more than you hope for, and from your faces, that is no
small wish to make for you. Surely I'll come! What is it you have
planned?"
"Something lovely!" said Leslie. "At Lowry's are three flower baskets that
are rather bewildering. I am to have one for my betrothal gift, but I
can't decide. I appealed to Mrs. Minturn to help me, and she agreed; she
is waiting below. Mr. Bruce named you for him; so you two and Mr. Lowry
are to choose the most artistic basket for me, then if I don't agree, I
needn't take it, but I want to see what you think. You'll come of course?"
Mr. Minturn's face darkened at the mention of his wife, while he hesitated
and looked penetratingly at Leslie. She was guileless, charming, and
eager.
"Very well," Mr. Minturn said gravely. "I'm surprised, but also pleased.
Beautiful young ladies have not appealed to me so often of late that I can
afford to miss the chance of humouring the most charming of her sex."
"How lovely!" laughed Leslie. "Douglas, did you ever know Mr. Minturn
could flatter like that? It's most enjoyable! I shall insist on more of
it, at every opportunity! Really, Mr. Minturn, society has missed you of
late, and it is our loss. We need men who are worth while."
"Now it is you who flatter," smiled Mr. Minturn.
"See my captive!" cried Leslie, as she emerged from the building and
crossed the walk to the car. "Mr. Bruce and Mr. Minturn are great friends,
so as we passed his door we brought him along by force."
"It certainly would require that to bring him anywhere in my company,"
said Mrs. Minturn coldly.
The shock of the cruelty of the remark closed Douglas' lips, but it was
Leslie's day to bubble, so she resolutely set herself to heal and cover
the hurt.
"I think business is a perfect bugbear," she said as she entered the car.
"I'm going to have a pre-nuptial agreement as to just how far work may
trespass on Douglas' time, and how much belongs to me. I think it can be
arranged. Daddy and I always have had lovely times together, and I would
call him successful. Wouldn't you?"
"A fine business man!" said Mr. Minturn heartily.
"You could have had much greater advantages if he had made more money,"
said Mrs. Minturn.
"The advantage of more money--yes," retorted Leslie quickly, "but would
the money have been of more advantage to me than the benefits of his
society and his personal hand in my rearing? I think not! I prefer my
Daddy!"
"When you take your place in society, as the mistress of a home, you will
find that millions will not be too much," said Mrs. Minturn.
"If I had millions, I'd give most of them away, and just go on living
about as I do now with Daddy," said Leslie.
"Leslie, where did you get bitten with this awful, common--what kind of an
idea shall I call it? You haven't imbibed socialistic tendencies have
you?"
"Haven't a smattering of what they mean!" laughed Leslie. "The 'istics'
scare me completely. Just _social_ ideas are all I have; thinking home
better than any other place on earth, the way you can afford to have it.
Merely being human, kind and interested in what my men are doing and
enjoying, and helping any one who crosses my path and seems to need me.
Oh, I get such joy, such delicious _joy_ from life."
"If I were undertaking wild-eyed reform, I'd sell my car and walk, and do
settlement work," said Mrs. Minturn scornfully.
Then Leslie surprised all of them. She leaned forward, looked beamingly
into the elder woman's face and cried enthusiastically: "I am positive
you'd be stronger, and much happier if you would! You know there is no
greater fun than going to the end of the car line and then walking miles
into the country, especially now in bloom-time. You see sights no painter
ever transferred even a good imitation of to canvas; you hear music--I
wish every music lover with your trained ear could have spent an hour in
that swamp this morning. You'd soon know where Verdi and Strauss found
some of their loveliest themes, and where Beethoven got the bird notes for
the brook scene of the Pastoral Symphony. Think how interested you'd be in
a yellow and black bird singing the Spinning Song from Martha, while you
couldn't accuse the bird of having stolen it from Flotow, could you?
Surely the bird holds right of priority!"
"If you weren't a little fool and talking purposely to irritate me, you'd
almost cause me to ask if you seriously mean that?" said Mrs. Minturn.
"Why," laughed Leslie, determined not to become provoked on this her great
day, "that is a matter you can test for yourself. If you haven't a score
of Martha, get one and I'll take you where you can hear a bird sing that
strain, then you may judge for yourself."
"I don't believe it!" said Mrs. Minturn tersely, "but if it were true,
that would be the _most wonderful experience_ I ever had in my life."
"And it would cost you only ten cents," scored Leslie. "You needn't ride
beyond the end of the car line for that, while a woman who can dance all
night surely could _walk_ far enough, to reach any old orchard. That's
what I am trying to _tell_ you. Money in large quantities isn't necessary
to provide the _most interesting_ things in the world, while millions
don't bring happiness. I can find more in what you would class almost
poverty."
"Why don't you try it?" suggested Mrs. Minturn.
"But I _have!_" said Leslie. "And I enjoy it! I could go with a man I love
as I do Daddy, and make a home, and get joy I never have found in society,
from just what we two could do with our own hands in the woods. I don't
like a city. If Daddy's business didn't keep him here, I would be in the
country this minute. Look at us poor souls trying to find pleasure in a
basket from the swamp, when we might have the whole swamp. I'd be happy to
live at its door. Now try a basket full of it. There are three. You are to
examine each of them carefully, then write on a slip of paper which you
think the _most artistic_. You are not to say things that will influence
each other's decisions, or Mr. Lowry's. I want a straight opinion from
each of you."
They entered the florist's, and on a glass table faced the orchids, the
slippers, the fringed basket, and the moccasins. Mr. Winton and the squaw
were waiting, while the florist was smiling in gratification, but the
Minturns went to the flowers without a word. They simply stood and looked.
Each of the baskets was in perfect condition. The flowers were as fresh as
at home in the swamp. Each was a thing of wondrous beauty. Each deserved
the mute tribute it was exacting. Mrs. Minturn studied them with gradually
darkening face. Mrs. Minturn repeatedly opened her lips as if she would
speak, but did not. She stepped closer and gently turned the flowers and
lightly touched the petals.
"Beautiful!" she said at last. "Beautiful!"
Another long silence.
Then: "_Honestly Leslie, did you hear a bird sing that strain from
Martha?_"
"Yes!" said Leslie, "I did. And if you will go with me to the swamp where
those flowers came from, you shall hear one sing a strain that will
instantly remind you of the opening chorus, while another renders Di
Provenza Il Mar from Traviata."
The lady turned again to the flowers. She was thinking something deep and
absorbing, but no one could have guessed exactly what it might be.
Finally: "I have decided," she said. "Shall we number these one, two, and
three, and so indicate them?"
"Yes," said Leslie a little breathlessly.
"Put your initials to the slips and I'll read them," offered Douglas. Then
he smilingly read aloud: "Mr. Lowry, one. Mrs. Minturn, two. Mr. Minturn,
three!"
"I cast the deciding vote," cried Leslie. "One!"
The squaw seemed to think of a war-whoop, but decided against it.
"Now be good enough to state your reasons," said Mr. Winton. "_Why_ do you
prefer the slipper basket, Mr. Lowry?"
"It satisfies my sense of the artistic."
"Why the fringed basket, Mrs. Minturn?"
"Because it contains daintier, more wonderful flowers than the others, and
is by far the most pleasing production."
"Now Minturn, your turn. Why do you like the moccasin basket?"
"It makes the deepest appeal to me," he answered.
"But why?" persisted Mr. Winton.
"If you will have it--the moccasins are the colour I once loved on the
face of my little daughter."
"Now Leslie!" said Mr. Winton hurriedly as he noted Mrs. Minturn's
displeased look.
"Must I tell?" she asked.
"Yes," said her father.
"Douglas selected it for me, so I like it best."
"But Leslie!" cried Douglas, "there were only two baskets when I favoured
that. Had the fringed orchids been here then, I most certainly should have
chosen them. I think yours far the most exquisite! I claim it now. Will
you give it to me?"
"Surely! I'd love to," laughed the girl.
"You have done your most exquisite work on the fringed basket," said Mrs.
Minturn to the squaw.
"No make!" said she promptly, pointing to Leslie.
"Leslie Winton, did you go to the swamp to make that basket?" demanded
Mrs. Minturn.
"Yes," answered Leslie.
"Did you make all of them?"
"Only that one," replied Leslie.
"Why?" marvelled the lady.
"To see if I could go to the tamarack swamp and bring from it with the
same tools and material, a more artistic production than an Indian woman."
"Well, you have!" conceded Mrs. Minturn.
"The majority is against me," said Leslie.
"Majorities mean masses, and masses are notoriously insane!" said Mrs.
Minturn.
"But this is a small, select majority," said Leslie.
"Craziest of all," said Mrs. Minturn decidedly. "If you have finished with
us, I want to thank you for the pleasure of seeing these, and Leslie, some
day I really think I shall try that bird music. The idea interests me more
than anything that I have ever heard of. If it were true, it would indeed
be wonderful, it would be a new experience!"
"If you want to hear for yourself, make it soon, because now is nesting
time; not again until next spring will the music be so entrancing. I can
go any day."
"I'll look over my engagements and call you. If one ever had a minute to
spare!"
"Another of the joys of wealth!" said Leslie. "Only the poor can afford to
'loaf and invite their souls.' The flowers you will see will delight your
eyes, quite as much as the music your ears."
"I doubt your logic, but I'll try the birds. Are you coming Mr. Minturn?"
"Not unless you especially wish me. Are these for sale?" he asked, picking
up the moccasins.
"Only those," replied the florist.
"Send your bill," he said, turning with the basket.
"How shining a thing is consistency!" sneered his wife. "You condemn the
riches you never have been able to amass, but at the same time spend like
a millionaire."
"I never said I was not able to gain millions," replied Mr. Minturn
coldly. "I have had frequent opportunities! I merely refused them, because
I did not consider them legitimate. As for my method in buying flowers, in
this one instance, price does not matter. You can guess what I shall do
with them."
"I couldn't possibly!" answered Mrs. Minturn. "The only sure venture I
could make is that they will not by any chance come to me."
"No. These go to baby Elizabeth," he said. "Do you want to come with me to
take them to her?"
With an audible sneer she passed him. He stepped aside, gravely raising
his hat, while the others said good-bye to him and followed.
"Positively insufferable!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "Every one of my friends
say they do not know how I endure his insults and I certainly will not
many more. I don't, I really don't know what he expects."
Mr. Winton and Douglas Bruce were confused, while Leslie was frightened,
but she tried turning the distressing occurrence off with excuses.
"Of course he intended no insult!" she soothed. "He must have adored his
little daughter and the flowers reminded him. I am so much obliged for
your opinion and I shall be glad to take you to the swamp any time. Your
little sons--would they like to go? It is a most interesting and
instructive place for children."
"For Heaven's sake don't mention children!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "They are
a bother and a curse!"
"Oh Mrs. Minturn!" exclaimed Leslie.
"Of course I don't mean _quite_ that; but I do very near! Mine are perfect
little devils; all the trouble James and I ever had came through them. His
idea of a mother is a combined doctor, wet-nurse and nursery maid, while I
must say, I far from agree with him. What are servants for if not to take
the trouble of children off your hands?"
Leslie was glad to reach the rich woman's door and deposit her there.
As the car sped away the girl turned a despairing face toward Douglas:
"For the love of Moike!" she cried. "Isn't that shocking? Poor Mr.
Minturn!"
"I don't pity him half so much as I do her," he answered. "What must a
woman have suffered or been through, to warp, twist, and harden her like
that?"
"Society life," answered Leslie, "as it is lived by people of wealth who
are aping royalty and the titled classes."
"A branch of them--possibly," conceded Douglas. "I know some titled and
wealthy people who would be dumbfounded over that woman's ideas."
"So do I," said Leslie. "Of course there are exceptions. Sometimes the
exception becomes bigger than the rule, but not in our richest society.
Douglas, let's keep close together! Oh don't let's ever drift into such a
state as that. I should have asked them to lunch, but I couldn't. If that
is the way she is talking before her friends, surely she won't have many,
soon."
"Then her need for a real woman like you will be all the greater,"
answered Douglas. "I suppose you should have asked her; but I'm delighted
that you didn't! To-day began so nearly perfect, I want to end it with
only you and your father. Will he resent me, Leslie?"
"It all depends on us. If we are selfish and leave him alone he will feel
it. If we can make him realize gain instead of loss he will be happier
than he is now."
"I wish I hadn't felt obliged to reject his offer the other night. I'm
very sorry about it."
"I'm not," said Leslie. "You have a right to live your life in your own
way. I have seen enough of running for office, elections and appointments
that I hate it. You do the work you educated yourself for and I'll help
you."
"Then my success is assured," laughed Douglas. "Leslie, may I leave my
basket here? Will you care for it like yours, and may I come to see it
often?"
"No. You may come to see me and look at the basket incidentally," she
answered.
"Do you think Mrs. Minturn will go to the swamp to listen to those birds?"
he asked.
"Eventually she will," answered the girl. "I may have to begin by taking
her to an orchard to hear a bird of gold sing a golden song about 'sewing,
and mending, and baby tending,' to start on; but when she hears that, she
will be eager for more."
"How interesting!" cried Douglas. "'Bearer of Morning,' sing that song to
me now."
Leslie whistled the air, beating time with her hand, then sang the words:
"_I can wash, sir, I can spin, sir,
I can sew and mend, and babies tend._"
"Oh you 'Bringer of Song!'" exulted Douglas. "I'd rather hear you sing
that than any bird, but from what she said, Nellie Minturn won't care
particularly for it!"
"She may not approve of, or practise, the sentiment," said Leslie, "but
she'll love the music and possibly the musician."
CHAPTER V
_Little Brother_
"Now what am I going to do yet to make the day shorter, Lily?" asked
Mickey.
"I guess I got everything," she answered. "There's my lunch. Here's my
pictures to cut. Here's my lesson to learn. There's my sky and bird
crumbs. Mickey, sometimes they hop right in on the sheet. Yest'day one
tried to get my lunch. Ain't they sassy?"
"Yes," said Mickey. "They fight worse than rich folks. I don't know why
the Almighty pays attention if they fall."
"Mebby nobody else cares," said Peaches, "and He feels obliged to 'cause
He made 'em."
"Gee! You say the funniest things, kid," laughed Mickey as he digested the
idea. "Wonder if He cares for us 'cause He made us."
"Mebby he didn't make us," suggested Peaches.
"Well we got one consoling thing," said Mickey. "If He made any of them,
He made us, and if He didn't make us, He didn't none of them, 'cause
everybody comes in and goes out the same way; She said so."
"Then of course it's so," agreed Peaches. "That gives us as good a chance
as anybody."
"Course it does if we got sense to take it," said Mickey. "We got to wake
up and make something of ourselves. Let me see if you know your lesson for
to-day yet. There is the picture of the animal--there is the word that
spells its name. Now what is it?"
"Milk!" answered Peaches, her eyes mischievous.
Mickey held over the book chuckling.
"All right! There is the word for that, too. For being so smart, Miss
Chicken, you can learn it 'fore you get any more to drink. If I have good
luck to-day, I'm going to blow in about six o'clock with a slate and
pencil for you; and then you can print the words you learn, and make
pictures. That'll help make the day go a lot faster."
"Oh it goes fast enough now," said Peaches. "I love days with you and the
window and the birds. I wish they'd sing more though."
"When your back gets well, I'll take you to the country where they sing
all the time," promised Mickey, "where there are grass, and trees, and
flowers, and water to wade in and----"
"Mickey, stop and go on!" cried Peaches. "Sooner you start, the sooner
I'll get my next verse. I want just norful good one to-night."
She held up her arms. Mickey submitted to a hug and a little cold dab on
his forehead, counted his money, locked the door and ran. On the car he
sat in deep thought, then suddenly sniggered aloud. He had achieved the
next installment of the doggerel to which every night Peaches insisted on
having a new verse added as he entered. He secured his papers, and
glimpsing the headlines started on his beat crying them lustily.
Mickey knew that washing, better air, enough food, and oil rubbing were
improving Peaches. What he did not know was that adding the interest of
her presence to his life, even though it made his work heavier, was
showing on him. He actually seemed bigger, stronger, and his face brighter
and fuller. He swung down the street thrusting his papers right and left,
crossed and went up the other side, watching closely for a customer. It
was ten o'clock and opportunities with the men were almost over. Mickey
turned to scan the street for anything even suggesting a sale. He saw none
and started with his old cry, watching as he went: "I _like_ to sell
papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't_----!"
Then he saw her. She was so fresh and joyous. She walked briskly. Even his
beloved nurse was not so wonderful. Straight toward her went Mickey.
"I _like_ to sell papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_
Morning paper, lady! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! Nice _clean_
paper!"
The girl's eyes betokened interest; her smiling lips encouraged Mickey. He
laid his chin over her arm, leaned his head against it and fell in step
with her.
"_Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ If I _sell_ them, I'm
happy! If I don't, I'm _hungry!_ If you _buy_ them, you're happy!
Pa--per?--lady."
"Not to-day, thank you," she said. "I'm shopping, so I don't wish to carry
it."
Mickey saw Peaches' slate vanishing. It was a beautiful slate, small so it
would not tire her bits of hands, and its frame was covered with red. His
face sobered, his voice changed, taking on unexpected modulations.
"Aw lady! I thought _you'd_ buy my paper! Far down the street I saw you
_coming_. Lady, I like your gentle _voice_. I like your pleasant _smile!_
You don't want a nice _sterilized_ paper?--lady."
The lady stopped short; she lifted Mickey's chin in a firm grip, looking
intently into his face.
"Just by the merest chance, could your name be Mickey?" she asked.
"Sure, lady! Mickey! Michael O'Halloran!"
Her smile became even more attractive.
"I really don't want to be bothered with a paper," she said; "but I do
wish a note delivered. If you'll carry it, I'll pay you the price of half
a dozen papers."
"Gets the slate!" cried Mickey, bouncing like a rubber boy. "Sure I will!
Is it ready, lady?"
"One minute!" she said. She stepped to the inside of the walk, opened her
purse, wrote a line on a card, slipped it in an envelope, addressed it and
handed it to Mickey.
"You can read that?" she asked.
"I've read worse writing than that," he assured her. "You ought to see the
hieroglyphics some of the dimun-studded dames put up!"
Mickey took a last glimpse at the laughing face, then wheeling ran.
Presently he went into a big building, studied the address board, then
entered the elevator and following a corridor reached the number.
He paused a second, glancing around, when he saw the name on the opposite
door. A flash passed over his face. "Ugh!" he muttered. "'Member now--been
to this place before! Glad she ain't sending a letter to _that_ man." He
stepped inside the open door before him, crossed the room and laid the
note near a man who was bending over some papers on a desk. The man
reached a groping hand, tore open the envelope, taking therefrom a card on
which was pencilled: "Could this by any chance be your Little Brother?"
He turned hastily, glancing at Mickey, then in a continuous movement arose
with outstretched hand.
"Why Little Brother," he cried, "I'm so glad to see you!"
Mickey's smile slowly vanished as he whipped his hands behind him,
stepping back.
"Nothin' doing, Boss," he said. "You're off your trolley. I've no brother.
My mother had only me."
"Don't you remember me, Mickey?" inquired Douglas Bruce.
"Sure!" said Mickey. "You made Jimmy pay up!"
"Has he bothered you again?" asked the lawyer.
"Nope!" answered Mickey.
"Sit down, Mickey, I want to talk with you."
"I'm much obliged for helping me out," said Mickey, "but I guess you got
other business, and I know I have."
"What is your business?" was the next question.
"Selling papers. What's yours?" was the answer.
"Trying to be a corporation lawyer," explained Douglas. "I've been here
only two years, and it is slow getting a start. I often have more time to
spare than I wish I had, while I'm lonesome no end."
"Is your mother dead?" asked Mickey solicitously.
"Yes," answered Douglas.
"So's mine!" he commented. "You _do_ get lonesome! Course she was a good
one?"
"The very finest, Mickey," said Douglas. "And yours?"
"Same here, Mister," said Mickey with conviction.
"Well since we are both motherless and lonesome, suppose we be brothers!"
suggested Douglas.
"Aw-w-w!" Mickey shook his head.
"No?" questioned Douglas.
"What's the use?" cried Mickey.
"You could help me with my work and share my play, while possibly I could
be of benefit to you."
"I just wondered if you wasn't getting to that," commented Mickey.
"Getting to what?" inquired Douglas.
"Going to do me good!" explained Mickey. "The swell stiffs are always
going to do us fellows good. Mostly they do! They do us good and brown!
They pick us up a while and make lap dogs of us, then when we've lost our
appetites for our jobs and got to having a hankerin' for the fetch and
carry business away they go and forget us, so we're a lot worse off than
we were before. Some of the fellows come out of it knowing more ways to be
mean than they ever learned on the street," explained Mickey. "If it's
that Big Brother bee you got in your bonnet, pull its stinger and let it
die an unnatural death! Nope! None! Good-bye!"
"Mickey, wait!" cried Douglas.
"Me business calls, an' I must go--'way to my ranch in Idaho!" gaily sang
Mickey.
"I'd like to shake you!" said Douglas Bruce.
"Well, go on," said Mickey. "I'm here and you're big enough."
"If I thought it would jolt out your fool notions and shake some sense in,
I would," said Douglas indignantly.
"Now look here, Kitchener," said Mickey. "Did I say one word that ain't
so, and that you don't know is so?"
"What you said is not even half a truth, young man! I do know cases where
idle rich men have tried the Little Brother plan as a fad, and made a
failure of it. But for a few like that, I know dozens of sincere, educated
men who are honestly giving a boy they fancy, a chance. I can take you
into the office of one of the most influential men in this city, right
across the hall there, and show you a boy he liked who has in a short time
become his friend, an invaluable helper, and hourly companion, and out of
it that boy will get a fine education, good business training, and a start
in life that will give him a better chance to begin on than the man who is
helping him had."
Mickey laughed boisterously, then sobered suddenly.
"'Scuse me, Brother," he said politely, "but that's most _too funny_ for
any use. Once I took a whirl with that gentleman myself. Whether he does
or not, I know the place where he ought to get off. See? Answer me this:
why would he be spending money and taking all that time for a 'newsy' when
he hardly knows his own kids if he sees them, and they're the wickedest
little rippers in the park. Just _why_ now?"
Douglas Bruce closed the door; then he came back and placing a chair for
Mickey, he took one opposite.
"Sit down Mickey," he said patiently. "There's a reason for my being
particularly interested in James Minturn, and the reason hinges on the
fact you mention: that he can't control his own sons, yet can make a boy
he takes comfort in, of a street gamin."
Mickey's eyes narrowed while he sat very straight in the chair he had
accepted.
"If he's made so much of him, it sort of proves that he _wasn't_ a gamin.
Some of the boys are a long shot closer gentlemen than the guys who are
experimenting with them; 'cause they were born rich and can afford it. If
your friend's going to train his pick-up to be what _he_ is, then that boy
would stand a better chance on his own side the curb. See? I've been right
up against that gentleman with the documents, so I know him. Also her!
Gee! 'Tear up de choild and gimme de papers' was meant for a joke; but I
saw that lady and gentleman do it. See? And she was the prettiest little
pink and yellow thing. Lord! I can see her gasping and blinking now! Makes
me sick! If the boy across the hall had seen what I did, he'd run a mile
and never stop. Gee!"
Douglas Bruce stared aghast. At last he said slowly: "Mickey, you are
getting mighty close the very thing I wish to know. If I tell you what I
know of James Minturn, will you tell me what you know and think?"
"Sure!" said Mickey readily. "I got no reasons for loving him. I wouldn't
convoy a millying to the mint for that gentleman!"
"Mickey, shall I go first, or will you?"
"I will," replied Mickey instantly, "'cause when I finish you'll save your
breath. See?"
"I see," said Douglas Bruce. "Proceed."
"Well, 'twas over two years ago," said Mickey, leaning forward to look
Bruce in the eyes. "I hadn't been up against the game so awful long alone.
'Twas summer and my papers were all gone, and I was tired, so I went over
in the park and sat on a seat, just watching folks. Pretty soon 'long
comes walking a nice lady with a sweet voice and kind eyes. She sat down
close me and says: 'It's a nice day.' We got chummy-like, when right up at
the fountain before us stops as swell an automobile as there is. One of
the brown French-governess-ladies with the hatchet face got out, and
unloaded three kids: two boys and a girl. She told the kids if they didn't
sit on the benches she socked them on hard, and keep their clothes clean
so she wouldn't have to wash and dress them again that day, she'd knock
the livers out of them, and walked off with the entrance policeman. Soon
as she and Bobbie got interested, the kids began sliding off the bench and
running around the fountain. The girl was only 'bout two or three, a fat
toddly thing, trying to do what her brothers did, and taking it like the
gamest kid you ever saw when they pushed her off the seat, and tripped
her, and 'bused her like a dog.
"Me and the woman were getting madder every minute. 'Go tell your nurse,'
says she. But the baby thing just glanced where nurse was and kind of
shivered and laughed, and ran on round the fountain, when the big boy
stuck his foot out so she fell. Nursie saw and started for her, but she
scrambled up and went kiting for the bench, and climbed on it, so nurse
told her she'd cut the blood out of her if she did that again, then went
back to her policeman. Soon as she was gone those little devils began
coaxing their sister to get down and run again. At last she began to smile
the cunningest and slipped to the walk, then a little farther, and a
little farther, all the time laughing and watching the nurse. The big boy,
he said: 'You ain't nothing but a _girl!_ You can't step on the edge like
I can and then step back!' She says: 'C'n too!' She did to show him, and
just as she did she saw that he was going to push her, then she tried to
get back, but he did push, and over she went! Not real in, but her arms
in, and her dress front some wet.
"She screamed while the little devil that pushed her grabbed her,
pretending to be _pulling her out_. Honest he did! Up came nurse just
frothing, and in language we couldn't understand she ripped and raved. She
dragged little pink back, grabbed her by the hair and cracked her head two
or three times against the _stone!_ The lady screamed, and so did I, and
we both ran at her. The boys just shouted and laughed and the smallest one
he up and kicked her while she was down. The policeman walked over
laughing too, but he told nurse that was _too rough_. Then my lady pitched
in, so he told her to tend to her business, that those kids were too tough
to live, and deserved all they got. The nurse laughed at her, and went
back to the grass with the policeman. The baby lay there on the stones,
and never made a sound. She just kind of gasped, and blinked, and lay
there, till my lady went almost wild. She went to her and stooped to lift
her up when she got awful sick. The policeman said something to the nurse,
so she came and dragged the kid away and said, 'The little pig has gone
and eaten too much again, and now I'll have to take her home and wash and
dress her all over,' then she gave her an awful shake. The policeman said
she'd better cut that out, because it _might_ have been the bumping, and
she said 'good for her if 'twas.' The driver pulled up just then and he
asked 'if the brat had been stuffin' too much again?' She said, 'yes,' and
the littlest boy he said, 'she pounded her head on the stone, good,' and
the nurse hit him 'cross the mouth till she knocked him against the car,
and she said, 'Want to try _that_ again? Open your head to say _that_
again, and I'll smash you too. _Eating too much made her sick_.' She
looked at the big boy fierce like so he laughed and said, 'Course eating
too much made her sick!' She nodded at him and said, 'Course! You get two
dishes of ice and two pieces of cake for remembering!' then she loaded
them in and they drove away.
"My lady was as white as marble and she said, 'Is there any way to find
out who they are?' I said, 'Sure! Half a dozen!' 'Boy,' she said, 'get
their residence for me and I'll give you a dollar.' Ought to seen me fly.
Car was chuffing away, waiting to get the traffic cop's sign when to cut
in on the avenue. I just took a dodge and hung on to the extra tire under
the top where nobody saw me, and when they stopped, I got the house number
they went in. Little pink was lying all white and limber yet, and nurse
looked worried as she carried her up. She said something fierce to the
boys, the big one rang and they went inside. I saw a footman take the
girl. I heard nurse begin that 'eat too much' story, then I cut back to
the park. The lady said, 'Get it?' I said, 'Sure! Dead easy.' She said,
'Can you take me?' I said, 'Glad to!'
"She said, 'That was the dreadfullest sight I ever saw. That child's
mother is going to know right now what kind of a nurse she is paying to
take care of her children. You come show me,' she said, so we went.
"'Will you come in with me?' she asked and I said, 'Yes!'
"Well, we rang and she asked pleasant to see the lady of the house on a
little matter of important business, so pretty soon here comes one of the
dimun-studded, fashion-paper ladies, all smiling sweet as honey, and asked
what the business was. My nice lady she said her name was Mrs. John Wilson
and her husband was a banker in Plymouth, Illinois, and she was in the
city shopping and went to the park to rest and was talking to me, when an
automobile let out a nurse, and two boys and a lovely little pink girl,
and she give the number and asked, 'was the car and the children hers?'
The dimun-lady slowly sort of began to freeze over, and when the nice lady
got that far, she said: 'I have an engagement. Kindly state in a _few_
words what you want.'
"My lady sort of stiffened up and then she said: 'I saw, this boy here
saw, and the park policeman nearest the entrance fountain saw your nurse
take your little girl by the hair, and strike her head against the
fountain curb three times, because her brother pushed her in. She lay
insensible until the car came, and she has just been carried into your
house in that condition.'
"I could see the footman peeking and at that he cut up the stairs. The
dimun-lady stiffened up and she said: 'So you are one of those meddling,
interfering country jays that come here and try to make us lose our good
servants, so you can hire them later. I've seen that done before. Lucette
is invaluable,' said she, 'and perfectly reliable. Takes all the care of
those dreadful little imps from me. Now you get out of here.' And she
reached for the button. My lady just sat still and smiled.
"'Do you really think I'd take the trouble to come here in this way if I
couldn't _prove_ I had seen the thing happen?' she asked.
"'God only knows what you country women would do!' the woman answered.
"'We would stand between our children and beastly cruelty,' my lady said.
'Your child's _condition_ is all the proof my words need. You go examine
her head, and feel the welt on it; see hew ill she is and you will thank
me. Your nurse is _not_ reliable! Keep her and your children will be
ruined, if not killed.'
"'Raving!' sneered the dimun-lady. 'But I know your kind so I'll go, as
it's the only way to get rid of you.'
"Now what do you think happened next? Well sir, 'bout three minutes in
walked the footman and salutes, sneering like a cat, and he said: 'Madam's
compliments. She finds her little daughter in perfect condition, sweetly
sleeping, and her sons having dinner. She asks you to see how quickly you
can leave her residence.'
"The woman looked at me so I said: 'It's all over but burying the kid if
it dies; come on, lady, they'd be _glad_ to plant it, and get it out of
the way.' So I started and she followed, and just as he let me out the
door I handed him this: 'I saw you listen and cut to tell, and I bet you
helped put the kid to sleep! But you better look out! She gave it to that
baby too rough for any use!'
"He started for me, but I flew. When we got on the street, the lady was
all used up so she couldn't say anything. She had me call a taxi to take
her to her hotel. I set down her name she gave me, and her house and
street number. I cut to a Newsies' directory and got the name of the owner
of the palace-place and it was Mrs. James Minturn. Next morning coming
down on the cars I was hunting headliners to make up a new call, like I
always do, and there I saw in big type, 'Mr. and Mrs. James Minturn
prostrate over the sudden death of their lovely little daughter from
poisoning, from an ice she ate.' I read it every word. Even what the
doctors said, and how investigation of the source of the ice came from was
to be made. What do you think of it?"
"I have no doubt but it's every word horrible truth," answered Douglas.
"_Sure!_" said Mickey. "I just hiked to the park and walked up to the cop
and showed him the paper, and he looked awful glum. I can point him out to
you, and give you the lady's address, and there were plenty more who saw
parts of it could be found if anybody was on the _kid's_ side. Sure it's
the truth!
"Well I kept a-thinking it over. One day about three weeks later, blest if
the same car didn't stop at the same fountain, and the same nurse got out
with the boys and she set them on the same bench and told them the same
thing, and then she went into another palaver with the same p'liceman. I
looked on pretty much interested, and before long the boys got to running
again and one tripped the other, and she saw and come running, and fetched
him a crack like to split his head, and pushed him down still and white,
so I said to myself: 'All right for you. Lady tried a lady and got
nothing. Here's where a gentleman tries a gentleman, and sees what he
gets.'
"I marched into the door just across the hall from you here, and faced Mr.
James Minturn, and gave him names, and dates, and addresses, even the
copper's name I'd got; and I told him all I've told you, and considerable
more. He wasn't so fiery as the lady, so I told him the whole thing, but
he never opened his trap. He just sat still and stony, listened till I
quit, and finally he heaved a big breath and looked at me sort of dazed
like and he said: 'What do you want, boy?'
"That made me red hot so I said: 'I want you to know that I saw the same
woman bust one of your _boys_ a good crack, over the head, a few minutes
ago.'
"That made him jump, but he didn't say or do anything, so I got up and
went--and--the same woman was in the park with the same boys yesterday,
and they're the biggest little devils there. What's the answer?"
"A heartbroken man," said Douglas Bruce. "Now let me tell you, Mickey."
Then he told Mickey all he knew of James Minturn.
"All the same, he ought to be able to do something for his own kids,
'stead of boys who don't need it _half_ so bad," commented Mickey. "Why
honest, I don't know one street kid so low that he'd kick a little girl--
after she'd been beat up scandalous, for his meanness to start on. Honest,
I don't! I don't care what he is doing for the boy he has got, that boy
doesn't need help half so much as his _own_; I can prove it to you, if
you'll come with me to the park 'most any morning."
"All right, I'll come," said Douglas promptly.
"Well I couldn't say that they would be there this minute," said Mickey,
"but I can call you up the first time I see they are."
"All right, I'll come, if it's possible. I'd like to see for myself. So
this gives you a settled prejudice against the Big Brother movement,
Mickey?"
"In my brogans, what would it give you?"
"A hard jolt!" said Douglas emphatically.
"Then what's the answer?"
"That it is more unfair than I thought you could be, to deprive me of my
Little Brother, because you deem the man across the hall unfit to have
one. Do I look as if you couldn't trust me, Mickey?"
"No, you don't! But neither does Mr. James Minturn. He _looks_ as if a
fellow could get a grip on him and pull safe across Belgium hanging on.
But you know I said the _same woman_----"
"I know Mickey; but that only proves that there are times when even the
strongest man can't help himself."
"Then like Ulhan I'd trot 1:54-1/2 to the judge of the Juvenile Court,"
said Mickey, "and I'd yell long and loud, and I'd put up the _proof_. That
would get the lady down to brass tacks. See?"
"But with Mrs. Minturn's position and the stain such a proceeding would
put on the boys----"
"Cut out the boys," advised Mickey. "They're gold plated, staining
wouldn't stick to them."
"So you are going to refuse education, employment and a respectable
position because you disapprove of one man among millions?" demanded
Douglas.
"That lets me out," said Mickey. "_She_ educated me a lot! No day is long
enough for the work I do right now; you can take my word for it that I'm
respectable, same as I'm taking yours that you are."
"All right!" said Douglas. "We will let it go then. Maybe you are right.
At least you are not worth the bother it requires to wake you up. Will you
take an answer to the note you brought me?"
"Now the returns are coming in," said Mickey. "Sure I will; but she is in
the big stores shopping."
"I'll find out," said Douglas.
He picked up the telephone and called the Winton residence; on learning
Leslie was still away, he left a request that she call him when she
returned.
"I would spend the time talking with you," he said to Mickey, "if I could
accomplish anything; as I can't, I'll go on with my work. You busy
yourself with anything around the rooms that interests you."
Mickey grinned half abashed. He took a long survey of the room they were
in, arose and standing in the door leading to the next he studied that. To
him "busy" meant work. Presently he went into the hall and returned with a
hand broom and dust pan he had secured from the janitor. He carefully went
over the floor, removing anything he could see that he thought should not
be there, and then began on the room adjoining. Next he appeared with a
cloth and dusted the furniture and window seats. Once he met Douglas' eye
and smiled. "Your janitor didn't have much of a mother," he commented. "I
could beat him to his base a rod."
"Job is yours any time you want it."
"Morning papers," carrolled Mickey. "Sterilized, deodorized, vulcanized. I
_like_ to sell them----"
Defeated again Bruce turned to his work and Mickey to his. He straightened
every rug, pulled a curtain, set a blind at an angle that gave the worker
more light and better air. He was investigating the glass when the
telephone rang.
"Hello, Leslie! It certainly was! How did you do it? Not so hilarious as
you might suppose. Leslie, I want to say something, not for the wire. Will
you hold the line a second until I start Mickey with it? All right!
"She is there now, Mickey. Can you find your way?"
"Sure!" laughed Mickey. "If you put the address on. She started me from
the street."
"The address is plain. For straightening my rooms and carrying the note,
will that be about right?"
"A lady-bird! Gee!" cried Mickey. "I didn't s'pose you was a plute! And I
don't s'pose so yet. You want a Little Brother bad if you're willing to
_buy_ one. This number ain't far out, and I wouldn't have sold more than
three papers this time of day--twenty-five is about right."
"But you forget cleaning my rooms," said Douglas.
Mickey grinned, his face flushed.
"Me to you!" he said. "Nothing! Just a little matter of keeping in
practice. Good-bye and be good to yourself!"
Douglas turned to the telephone.
"Leslie!" he said, "I'm sending Mickey back to you with a note, not
because I had anything to say I couldn't say now, but because I can't
manage him. I pretended I didn't care, and let him go. Can't you help me?
See if you can't interest him in something that at least will bring him
back, or show us where to find him. Certainly! Thank you very much!"
When Mickey delivered the letter the lovely young woman just happened to
be in the hall. She told him to come in until she read it, to learn what
Mr. Bruce wanted. Mickey followed into a big room, looked around, then a
speculative, appreciative gleam crossed his face. He realized the
difference between a home and a show room. He did not know what he was
seeing or why it affected him as it did. Really the thought that was in
his mind was that this woman was far more attractive, but had less money
to spend on her home, than many others. He missed the glitter, but enjoyed
the comfort, for he leaned back against the chair offered him, thinking
what a cool, restful place it was. The girl seemed in no hurry to open the
letter.
"Have trouble finding Mr. Bruce?" she asked.
"Easy! I'd been to the same building before."
"And I suppose you'll be there many times again," she suggested.
"I'm going back right now, if you want to send an answer to that letter,"
he said.
"And if it requires none?" she questioned.
"Then I'm going to try to sell the rest of these papers, get a slate for
Lily and go home."
"Is Lily your little sister?" she asked.
Mickey straightened, firmly closing his lips. He had done it again.
"Just a little girl I know," he said cautiously.
"A little bit of a girl?" she asked.
"'Bout the littlest girl you ever saw," said Mickey, unconsciously
interested in the subject.
"And you are going to take her a slate to draw pictures on? How fine! I
wish you'd carry her a package for me, too. I was arranging my dresser
this morning and I put the ribbons I don't want into a box for some child.
Maybe Lily would like them for her doll."
"Lily hasn't any doll," he said. "She had one, but her granny sold it and
got drunk on the money."
Mickey stopped suddenly. In a minute more he would have another Orphans'
Home argument on his hands.
"Scandalous!" cried Leslie. "In my room there is a doll just begging to go
to some little girl. If you took it to Lily, would her granny sell it
again?"
"Not this morning," said Mickey. "You see Miss, a few days ago she lost
her breath. Permanent! No! If Lily had a doll, nobody would take it from
her now."
"I'll bring it at once," she offered "and the ribbons."
"Never mind," said Mickey. "I can get her a doll."
"But you haven't seen this one!" cried Leslie. "You save your money for
oranges."
Without waiting for a reply she left the room, presently returning with a
box and a doll that seemed to Mickey quite as large as Peaches. It had a
beautiful face, hair, real hair that could be combed, and real clothes
that could be taken off. Leslie had dressed it for a birthday gift for the
little daughter of one of her friends; but by making haste she could
prepare another. Mickey gazed in bewilderment. He had seen dolls, even
larger and more wonderful than that, in the shop windows, but connecting
such a creation with his room and Peaches required mental adjustments.
"I guess you better not," he said with conviction.
"But why not?" asked Leslie in amazement.
"Well for 'bout fifty reasons," replied Mickey. "You see Lily is a poor
kid, and her back is bad. That doll is so big she couldn't dress it
without getting all tired out; and what's the use showing her such
dresses, when she can't have any herself. She's got the best she ever had,
and the best she can have right now; so that ain't the kind of a doll for
Lily--it's too big--and too--too gladsome!"
"I see," laughed Leslie. "Well Mickey, you show me what would be the right
size of a doll for Lily. I'll get another, and dress it as you say. How
would that do?"
"You needn't!" said Mickey. "Lily is happy now."
"But wouldn't she _like_ a doll?" persisted Leslie. "I never knew a girl
who didn't love a doll. Wouldn't she _like_ a doll?"
"'Most to death I 'spect," said Mickey. "I know she said she cried for the
one her granny sold, 'til she beat her. Yes I guess she'd _like_ a doll;
but I can get her one."
"But you can't make white nighties for Lily to put on it to take to bed
with her, and cunning little dresses for morning, and a street dress for
afternoon, and a party dress for evening," tempted the girl.
"Lily has been on the street twice, and she never heard of a party. Just
nighties and the morning dress would do, and there's no use for me to be
sticking. If you like to give away dolls, Lily might as well have one, for
she'd just--I don't know what she would do about it," conceded Mickey.
"All right," said Leslie. "I'll dress it this afternoon, and tomorrow you
can come for it in the evening before you go home. If I am not here, the
package will be ready. Take the ribbons now. She'd like them for her
hair."
"Her hair's too short for a ribbon," said Mickey.
"Then a headband! This way!" said Leslie.
She opened a box and displayed a wonderment of ribbon bands, and bits of
gay colour.
"Gee!" gasped Mickey. "I couldn't pick up that much brightness for her in
a year!"
"You save what you find for her?" asked Leslie.
"Sure!" said Mickey. "You see Miss, things are pretty plain where she is,
so all the brightness I can take her ain't going to hurt her eyes. Thank
you heaps. Is there going to be any answer to the letter?"
"Why I haven't read it yet!" cried the girl.
"No! A-body can see that some one else is rustling for your grub!"
commented Mickey.
"That's so too," laughed Leslie. "Darling old Daddy!"
"Just about right is he?" queried Mickey, interestedly.
"Just exactly right!" said Leslie.
"Gur-ur-and!" said Mickey. "Some of them ain't so well fixed! And he that
wrote the note, I guess he's about as fine as you make them, too!"
"He's the finest man I ever have known, Mickey!" said the girl earnestly.
"Barring Daddy?" suggested Mickey.
"Not barring anybody!" cried she. "Daddy is lovely, but he's Daddy! Mr.
Bruce is different!"
"No letter?" questioned Mickey, rising.
"None!" said the girl. "Come to-morrow night. You are sure Lily is so very
little, Mickey?"
"You wouldn't call me big, would you?" he asked. "Well! I can lift her
with one hand! Such a large doll as that would be tiring and confusing.
Please make Lily's _more like she's used to_. See?"
"Mickey, I do see!" said Leslie. "I beg your pardon. Lily's doll shall not
tire her or make her discontented with what she has. Thank you for a good
idea."
Mickey returned to the street shortly after noon, with more in his pocket
than he usually earned in a day, where by expert work he soon disposed of
his last paper. He bought the slate, then hurried home carrying it and the
box. At the grocery he carefully selected food again. Then he threw open
his door and achieved this:
"_Once a little kid named Peaches,
Swelled my heart until it eatches.
If you think I'd trade her for a dog,
Your think-tank has slipped a cog!_"
Peaches laughed, stretching her hands as usual. Mickey stooped for her
caress, scattering the ribbons over her as he arose. She gasped in
delighted amazement.
"Oh! Mickey! Where did you ever? Mickey, where did you get them? Mickey,
you didn't st----?"
"You just better choke on that, Miss!" yelled Mickey. "No I didn't st----!
And I don't st----! And nothing I ever bring you will be st----! And you
needn't ever put no more st's---- at me. See?"
"Mickey, I didn't _mean_ that! Course I know you _wouldn't!_ Course I know
you _couldn't!_ Mickey, that's the best poetry piece yet! Did you bring
the slate?"
"Sure!" said Mickey, somewhat mollified, but still injured. "I must have
dropped it with the banquet!"
Peaches pushed away the billow of colour, taking the slate. Her fingers
picking at the string reminded Mickey of sparrow feet; but he watched
until she untied and removed the paper which he folded to lay away. She
picked up the pencil, meditating.
"Mickey!" she said. "Make my hand do a word!"
"Sure!" said Mickey. "What do you want to write first, Flowersy-girl?"
Peaches looked at him reproachfully.
"Course there wouldn't be but _one_ I'd want to do first of all," she
said. "Hold my hand tight, and big and plain up at the top make it write,
'Mickey-lovest.'"
"Sure," said the boy in a hushed voice. He gripped the hand, bending above
her, but suddenly collapsed, buried his face in her hair and sobbed until
he shook.
Peaches crouched down, lying rigidly. She was badly frightened. At last
she could endure it no longer.
"Mickey!" she gasped. "Mickey, what did I do? Mickey, don't write it if
you don't _want_ to!"
Mickey arose, wiping his face on the sheet.
"You just bet I want to write that, Lily!" he said. "I never wanted to do
anything _more_ in all my life!"
"Then why----?" she began.
"Never you mind 'why' Miss!" said Mickey.
Grasping her hand, he traced the words. Peaches looked at them a long
time, then carefully laid the slate aside. She began fingering the
ribbons.
"Let me wash you," said Mickey, "and rub your back to rest you from all
this day, then I'll comb your hair and you pick the prettiest one. I'll
put it on the way she showed me, so you'll be a fash'nable lady."
"Who showed you Mickey, and gave you such pretties?"
"A girl I carried a letter to. After you're bathed and have had supper
I'll tell you."
Then Mickey began work. He sponged Peaches, rubbed her back, laid her on
his pallet, putting fresh sheets on her bed and carefully preparing her
supper. After she had eaten he again ran the comb through her ringlets,
telling her to select the ribbon he should use.
"No you!" said Peaches.
Mickey squinted, so exacting was the work of deciding. Red he discarded
with one sweep against her white cheeks; green went with it; blue almost
made him shudder, but a soft warm pink pleased him, so Mickey folded it
into the bands in which it had been creased before, binding it around
Peaches' head as Leslie had shown him, then with awkward fingers did his
best on a big bow. He crossed the room and picked up a mirror which he
held before her reciting: "Once a little kid named Peaches, swelled my
heart----"
Peaches took the mirror, studying the face intently. She glanced over her
shoulder so Mickey piled the pillows higher. Then she looked at him.
Mickey scrutinized her closely.
"You're clean kid, clean as a plate!" he assured her. "Honest you are! You
needn't worry about that. I'll always keep you washed clean. _She_ was
more particular about that than anything else. Don't you fret about my
having a dirty girl around! You're clean, all right!"
Peaches sighed as she returned the mirror. Mickey replaced it, laid the
slate and ribbons in reach, washed the dishes, then the sheets he had
removed, and their soiled clothing. Peaches lay folding and unfolding the
ribbons; asking questions while Mickey worked, or with the pencil tracing
her best imitations of the name on the slate. By the time he had finished
everything to be done and drawn a chair beside the bed, to see if she had
learned her lesson for the day, it was cool evening. She knew all the
words he had given her, so he proceeded to write them on the slate. Then
told her about the big man named Douglas Bruce and the lovely girl named
Leslie Winton, also every word he could remember about the house she lived
in; then he added: "Lily, do you like to be surprised better or do you
like to think things over?"
"I don't know," said Peaches.
"Well, before long, I'll know," said Mickey. "What I was thinking was
this: you are going to have something. I just wondered whether you'd
rather know it was coming, or have me walk in with it and surprise you."
"Mickey, you just walk in," she decided.
"All right!" said Mickey.
"Mickey, write on the other side of my slate what you said at the door to-
night," she coaxed. "Get a little book an' write 'em all down. Mickey, I
want to learn all of them, when I c'n read. Lemme tell you. You make all
you c'n think of. Nen make more. An' make 'em, an' make 'em! An' when you
get big as you're goin' to be, make books of 'em, an' be a poet-man 'stead
of sellin' papers."
"Sure!" said Mickey. "I'd just as lief be a poet-man as not! I'd write a
big one all about a little yellow-haired girl named Lily Peaches, and I'd
put it on the front page of the _Herald!_ Honest I would! I'd like to!"
"Gee!" said Peaches. "You go on an' grow hel--wope! I mean hurry! Hurry
an' grow up!"
CHAPTER VI
_The Song of a Bird_
"Leslie," said the voice of Mrs. James Minturn over the telephone, "is
there any particular time of the day when that bird of yours sings better
than at another?"
"Morning, Mrs. Minturn; five, the latest. At that time one hears the full
chorus, and sees the perfect beauty. Really, I wouldn't ask you, if I were
not sure, positively sure, that you'd find the trip worth while."
"I'll be ready in the morning, but that's an unearthly hour!" came the
protest.
"It is almost unearthly sights and sounds to which you are going,"
answered Leslie. "And be sure you wear suitable clothing."
"What do you call suitable clothing?"
"High heavy shoes," said Leslie, "short stout skirts."
"As if I had such things!" laughed Mrs. Minturn.
"Let me send you something of mine," offered Leslie. "I've enough for
two."
"You're not figuring on really going in one of those awful places, are
you?" questioned Mrs. Minturn.
"Surely!" cried Leslie. "The birds won't sing to an automobile. And you
wouldn't miss seeing such flowers on their stems as you saw at Lowry's for
any money. It will be something to tell your friends about."
"Send what I should have. I'd ride a llama through a sea of champagne for
a new experience."
Mrs. Minturn turned from the telephone with a contemptuous sneer on her
face; but Leslie's gay laugh persisted in her ears. Restlessly she moved
through her rooms thinking what she might do to divert herself, and
shrinking from all the tiresome things she had been doing for years until
there was not a drop of the fresh juice of life to be extracted from them.
"I'm going to take a bath, go to bed early and see if I can sleep," she
muttered. "I don't know what it is that James is contemplating, but his
face haunts me. Really, if he doesn't be more civil, and stop his morose
glowering when I do see him, I'll put him or myself where we won't come in
contact. He makes it plain every day that he blames me about Elizabeth.
Why should he? He couldn't possibly know of the call of that wild-eyed
reformer. So unfortunate that she should come just at that time too! Of
course hundreds of children die from spoiled milk every summer, the rich
as well as the poor. I'll never get over regretting that I didn't finish
what I started to do; but I'd scarcely touched her in her life. She always
was so pink and warm, and that awful whiteness chilled me to the soul. I
wish I had driven, forced myself! Then I could defy James with more
spirit. That's what I lack--_spirit!_ Maybe this trip to the swamp will
steady my nerves! Something must be done soon, and I believe, actually I
believe he is thinking of doing it! Pooh! What _could_ he do? There isn't
an irregularity in my life he can lay his fingers on!"
She rang for her maid and cancelling two engagements for the evening, went
to bed, but not to sleep. When she was called early in the morning, she
gladly arose, and was dressed in Leslie Winton's short skirts, a waist of
khaki, and high shoes near enough her size to be comfortable. Her bath had
refreshed her, a cup of hot coffee stimulated her, and despite the lack of
sleep she felt better than she had that spring as she went down to the
car. On the threshold she met her husband. Evidently he had been out all
night on strenuous business. His face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot,
while in both hands he gripped a small, square paper-wrapped package. They
looked at each other a second that seemed long to both, then the woman
laughed.
"Evidently an accounting is expected," she said. "Leslie Winton at the
door and the roll of music I carry should be sufficient to prove why I am
going out at this hour. You heard us make the arrangement. Thank Heaven
I've no interest in knowing where you have been, or what your precious
package contains."
His expression and condition frightened her.
"For the weight of a straw overbalance," he said, "only for a hint that
you have a soul, I'd freeze it for all time with the contents of this
package."
"A threat? You to me?" she cried in amazement.
"Verily, Madam," he said. "I wish you all the joy of the birds and flowers
this morning."
"You've gone mad!" she cried.
"Contrarily, I have come to my senses after years of insanity," he said.
"I will see you when you return."
She stood bewildered, watching him go down the hall and enter his library.
That and his sleeping room were the only places in the house sacred to
him. No one entered, no one, not even the incorrigible children, touched
anything there. She slowly went to the car, trying to rally to Leslie's
greeting, struggling to fix her mind on anything pointed out to her as
something she might enjoy.
At last she said: "I don't know what is the matter with me Leslie. James
is planning something, I haven't an idea what; but his grim, reproachful
face is slowly driving me wild. I'm getting so I can't sleep. You saw him
come home as I left. He talked positively crazy, as if he had the crack of
doom in his hands and were prepared to crack it. He said he 'would see me
when I came back.' Indeed he will--to his sorrow! He will be as he used to
be, or we will separate. The idea, with scarcely a cent to his name, of
him undertaking to dictate to me, _to me!_ Do you blame me Leslie? You
heard him the other day! You know how he insulted me!"
Leslie leaned forward, laying a firm hand in a grip on Mrs. Minturn's arm.
"Since you ask me," she said, "I will answer. If you find life with Mr.
Minturn insufferable, an agony to both of you, I _would_ separate, and
_speedily_. If it has come to the place where you can't see each other or
speak without falling into unpleasantness, then I'd keep apart."
"That is exactly the case!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "Oh Leslie, I am so glad
you agree with me!"
"But I haven't finished," said Leslie, "you interrupted me in the middle.
If you are absolutely sure you can't go on peaceably, I would stop; but if
I once had loved a man enough to give my life and my happiness into his
keeping, to make him the father of my children, I would not separate from
him, until I had exhausted every resource, to see if I couldn't in some
possible way end with credit."
"If you had been through what I have," said Mrs. Minturn, "you wouldn't
endure it any longer."
"Perhaps," said Leslie. "But you see dear Mrs. Minturn, I am handicapped
by not knowing _what_ you have been through. To your world you appear to
be a woman of great wealth, who does exactly as she pleases and pays her
own bills. You seem to have unlimited money, power, position, leisure for
anything you fancy. I'll wager you don't know the names of half the
servants in your house; a skillful housekeeper takes the responsibility
off your hands. You never are seen in public with your children; competent
nurses care for them. You don't appear with your husband any more; yet he
is a man of fine brain, unimpeachable character, who handles big affairs
for other men, and father says he believes his bank account would surprise
you. He has been in business for years; surely all he makes doesn't go to
other men."
"You know I never thought of that!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "He had nothing to
begin on and I've always kept our establishment; he's never paid for more
than his clothing. Do you suppose that he has made money?"
"I know that he has!" said Leslie. "Not so fast as he might! Not so much
as he could, for he is incorruptible; but money, yes! He is a powerful
man, not only in the city, but all over the state. Some of these days
you're going to wake up to find him a Senator, or Governor. You seem to be
the only person who doesn't know it, or who doesn't care if you do. But
when it comes about, as it will, you'll be so proud of him! Dear Mrs.
Minturn, please, please go slowly! Don't, oh don't let anything happen
that will make a big regret for both."
"Leslie, where did you get all this?" asked Mrs. Minturn in tones of
mingled interest and surprise.
"From my father!" answered Leslie. "And from Douglas Bruce. Douglas'
office is across the hall from Mr. Minturn's; they meet daily, and from
the first they have been friends. Mr. Minturn took Douglas to his clubs,
introduced him and helped him into business, so often they work together.
Why only yesterday Douglas came to me filled with delight. Mr. Minturn
secured an appointment for him to make an investigation for the city which
will be a great help to Douglas. It will bring him in contact with
prominent men, give him big work and a sample of how mercenary I am--it
will bring him big pay and he knows how to use the money in a big way.
Douglas knows Mr. Minturn so well, and respects him so highly, yet no one
can know him as you do----"
"That is quite true! I live with him! I know the real man!" cried Mrs.
Minturn.
"How mean of you!" laughed Leslie, "to distort my reasoning like that! I
don't ask you to think up all the little things that have massed into one
big grievance against him; I mean stop that for to-day, out here in the
country where everything is so lovely, and go back where I am."
"He surely has an advocate! Leslie, when did you start making an especial
study of Mr. Minturn?"
"When Douglas Bruce began speaking to me so frequently of him!" answered
Leslie. "Then I commenced to watch him and to listen to what people were
saying about him, and to ask Daddy."
"It's very funny that every one seems so well informed and so enthusiastic
just at the time when I feel that life is unendurable with him," said Mrs.
Minturn. "I can't understand it!"
"Mrs. Minturn, try, oh do try to get my viewpoint before you do anything
irreparable," begged Leslie. "Away up here in the woods let's think it
out! Let's discuss James Minturn in every phase of his nature and see if
the big manly part doesn't far outweigh the little irritations. Let's see
if you can't possibly go to the meeting he wants when we return with a
balance struck in his favour. A divorced woman is always--well, it's
disagreeable. Alone you'd feel stranded. Attempt marrying again, where
would you find a man with half the points that count for good, to replace
him? In after years when your children realize the man he is, how are you
going to explain to them why you couldn't live with him?"
"From your rush of words, it is evident you have your arguments at hand,"
said Mrs. Minturn. "You've been thinking more about my affairs than I ever
did. You bring up points I never have thought of; you make me see things
that would not have occurred to me; yet as you put them, they have awful
force. You haven't exactly said it, but what you mean is that you believe
_me_ in the wrong; so do all my friends. All of you sympathize with Mr.
Minturn! All of you think him a big man worthy of every consideration and
me deserving none."
"You're putting that too strong," retorted Leslie. "You are right about
Mr. Minturn; but I won't admit that I find you 'worthy of no consideration
at all,' or I wouldn't be imploring you to give yourself a chance at
happiness."
"'Give myself a chance at happiness!'"
"Dear Mrs. Minturn, yes!" said Leslie. "All your life, so far, you have
lived absolutely for yourself; for your personal pleasure. Has happiness
resulted?"
"Happiness?" cried Mrs. Minturn in amazement. "You little fool! With my
husband practically a madman, my children incorrigible, my nerves on edge
until I can't sleep, because one thought comes over and over."
"Well you achieved it in society!" said Leslie. "It's the result of doing
exactly what you _wanted to!_ You can't say James Minturn was to blame for
what you had the money and the desire to do. You can't think your babies
would have preferred their mother to the nurses and governesses they have
had----"
"If you say another word about that I'll jump from the car and break my
neck," threatened Mrs. Minturn. "No one sympathizes with me!"
"That is untrue," said Leslie. "I care, or I wouldn't be doing what I am
now. And as for sympathy, I haven't a doubt but every woman of your
especial set will weep tears of condolence with you, if you'll tell them
what you have me. There is Mrs. Clinton and Mrs. Farley, and a dozen women
among your dearest friends who have divorced their husbands, and are free
lances or remarried; you can have friends enough to suit you in any
event."
"Fools! Shallow-pated fools!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "They never read
anything! Their idea of any art would convulse you! They don't know a note
of real music!"
"But they are your best friends," interposed Leslie. "What then is their
attraction?"
"I am sure I don't know!" said Mrs. Minturn. "I suppose it's unlimited
means to follow any fad or fancy, to live extravagantly as they choose, to
dress faultlessly as they have taste, freedom to go as they please! Oh
they do have a good time!"
"Are you sure that they didn't go through the same 'good time' you are
having right now, before they lost the men they loved and married, and
then became mothers who later deliberately orphaned their own children?"
"Leslie, for God's sake where did you learn it?" cried Mrs. Minturn. "How
can you hit like that? You make me feel like a--like a----! Oh Lord!"
"Don't let's talk any more, Mrs. Minturn," suggested Leslie. "You know
what all refined, home-loving people think. You know society and what it
has to offer. You're making yourself unhappy, while I am helping you, but
if some one doesn't stop you, you may lose the love of a good man, the
respect of the people worth while, and later of your own children! See,
here is the swamp and this is as close as we can go with the car."
"Is this where you found the flowers for your basket?"
"Yes," said Leslie.
"No snakes, no quicksands?"
"Snakes don't like this kind of moss," answered Leslie; "this is an old
lake bed grown up with tamaracks and the bog of a thousand years."
"Looks as if ten thousand might come closer!"
"Where you ever in such a place?" asked Leslie.
"Never!" said Mrs. Minturn.
"Well to do this to perfection," said Leslie, "we should go far enough for
you to see the home life of our rarest wild flowers and to get the music
full effect. We must look for a high place to spread this waterproof sheet
I have brought along, then nestle down and keep still. The birds will see
us going in, but if we make ourselves inconspicuous, they will soon forget
us. Have you the score?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Minturn. "Go ahead!"
Leslie had not expected Mrs. Minturn's calm tones and placid acceptance of
the swamp. The girl sent one searching look the woman's way, then came
enlightenment. This was a stunt. Mrs. Minturn had been doing stunts in the
hope of new sensations all her life. What others could do, she could, if
she chose; in this instance she chose to penetrate a tamarack swamp at six
o'clock in the morning, to listen to the notes of a bird.
"I'll select the highest places and go as nearly where we were as I can,"
said Leslie. "If you step in my tracks you'll be all right."
"Why, you're not afraid, are you?" asked Mrs. Minturn.
"Not in the least," said Leslie. "Are you?"
"No!" said Mrs. Minturn. "One strikes almost everything motoring through
the country, in the mountains or at sea, and travelling. This looks
interesting. How deep could one sink anyway?"
"Deeply enough to satisfy you," laughed Leslie. "Come quietly now!"
Grasping the score she carried, Mrs. Minturn unconcernedly plunged after
Leslie. Purposely the girl went slowly, stooping beneath branches,
skirting too wet places, slipping over the high hummocks, turning to
indicate by gesture a moss bed, a flower, or glancing upward to try to
catch a glimpse of some entrancing musician.
Once Leslie turned to look back and saw Mrs. Minturn on her knees
separating the silvery green moss heads and thrusting her hand deeply to
learn the length of the roots. She noticed the lady's absorbed face, and
the wet patches spreading around her knees. Leslie fancied she could see
Mrs. Minturn entering the next gathering of her friends, smiling faintly
and crying: "Dear people, I've had a perfectly new experience!" She could
hear every tone of Mrs. Minturn's voice saying: "Ferns as luxuriant as
anything in Florida! Moss beds several feet deep. A hundred birds singing,
and all before sunrise, my dears!" When Mrs. Minturn arose Leslie went
forward slowly until she reached the moccasin flowers, but remembering,
she did not stop. The woman did. She stooped and Leslie winced as she
snapped one to examine it critically. She held it up in the gray light,
turning it.
"Did you ever see--little Elizabeth?" she asked.
"Yes," said Leslie.
"Do you think----?" She stopped abruptly.
"That one is too deep," said Leslie. "The colour he saw was on a freshly
opened one like that."
She pointed to a paler moccasin of exquisite pink with red lavender
veining. Mrs. Minturn assented.
"He can't forget anything," she said, "or let any one else. He always will
keep harping."
"We were peculiarly unfortunate that day," said Leslie. "He really had no
intention of saying anything, if he hadn't been forced."
"Oh he doesn't require forcing," said Mrs. Minturn. "He's always at the
overflow point about her."
"Perhaps he was very fond of her," suggested Leslie.
"He was perfectly foolish about her," said Mrs. Minturn impatiently. "I
lost a nurse or two through his interference. When I got such a treasure
as Lucette I just told her to take complete charge, make him attend his
own affairs, and not try being a nursery maid. It really isn't done these
days!"
Leslie closed her lips, moving forward until she reached the space where
the ragged boys and the fringed girls floated their white banners, where
lacy yellow and lavender blooms caressed each other, there on the highest
place she could select, across a moss-covered log, she spread the
waterproof sheet, and seating herself, motioned Mrs. Minturn to do the
same. She reached for the music and opening it ran over the score. Her
finger paused on the notes she had whistled, while with eager face she sat
waiting.
Mrs. Minturn dropped into an attitude of tense listening. The sun began
dissipating the gray mists and heightening the exquisite tints on all
sides. Every green imaginable was there from palest silver to the deepest,
darkest shades; all dew wet, rankly growing, gold tinted and showing
clearer each minute. Gradually Mrs. Minturn relaxed, made herself
comfortable as possible, then turned to the orchids of the open space. The
colour flushed and faded on her tired face, she nervously rolled the
moccasin stem in her fingers, or looked long at the delicate flower. She
was thinking so intently that Leslie saw she was neither seeing the swamp,
nor hearing the birds.
It was then that a little gray singer straying through the tamaracks sent
a wireless to his mate in the bushes of borderland, in which he wished to
convey to her all there was in his heart about the wonders of spring, the
joy of mating, the love of her, and their nest. He waited a second, then
tucking his tail, swelled his throat, and made sure he had done his best.
At the first measure, Leslie thrust the sheet before Mrs. Minturn,
pointing to the place. Instantly the woman scanned the score, then leaned
forward listening. As the bird flew, Leslie faced Mrs. Minturn with
questioning eyes. She cried softly: "He did it! Perfectly! If I hadn't
heard I never would have believed."
"There is another that can do this from Verdi's _Traviata_." Leslie
whistled the notes. "We may hear him also."
Again they waited. Leslie realized that Mrs. Minturn was not listening,
and would have to be recalled if the bird sang. Leslie sat silent. The
same bird sang, and others, but to the girl had come the intuition that
Mrs. Minturn was having her hour in the garden, so wisely she remained
silent. After an interminable time she arose, making her way forward as
far as she could penetrate and still see the figure of the woman, then
hunting an old stump, climbed upon it and did some thinking herself.
At last she returned to the motionless figure. Mrs. Minturn was leaning
against the tamarack's scraggy trunk, her head resting on a branch,
lightly sleeping. A rivulet staining her cheeks from each eye showed where
slow tears had slipped from under her closed lids. Leslie's heart ached
with pity. She thought she never had seen any one seem so sad, so alone,
so punished for sins of inheritance and rearing. She sat beside Mrs.
Minturn, waiting until she awakened.
"Why I must have fallen asleep!" she cried.
"For a minute," said Leslie.
"But I feel as if I had rested soundly a whole night," said Mrs. Minturn.
"I'm so refreshed. And there goes that bird again. Verdi to take his
notes! Who ever would have thought of it? Leslie, did you bring any lunch?
I'm famished."
"We must go back to the car," said Leslie.
They spread the waterproof sheet on the ground where it would be bordered
with daintily traced partridge berry, and white-lined plantain leaves, and
sitting on it ate their lunch. Leslie did what she could to interest Mrs.
Minturn and cheer her, but at last that lady said: "Thank you dear, you
are very good to me; but you can't entertain me to-day. Some other time
we'll come back and bring the scores you suggest, and see what we can
really hear from these birds. But to-day, I've got the battle of my life
to fight. Something is coming; I should be in a measure prepared, and as I
don't know what to expect, it takes all the brains I have to figure things
out."
"You don't know, Mrs. Minturn?" asked Leslie.
"No," she said wearily. "I know James hates the life I lead; he thinks my
time wasted. I know he's a disappointed man, because he thought when he
married me he could cut me out of everything worth while in the world, and
set me to waiting on him, and nursing his children. Every single thing I
have done since, or wanted or had, has been a disappointment to him. I
know now he never would have married me, if he hadn't figured he was going
to make me over; shape me and my life to suit his whims, and throw away my
money to please his fancies. He's been utterly discontented since
Elizabeth was born. Why Leslie, we haven't lived together since then. He
said if I were going to persist in bringing 'orphans' into the world,
babies I wouldn't mother myself, or wouldn't allow him to father, there
would be no more children. I laughed at him, because I didn't think he
meant it; but he did, so that ended even a semblance of content. Half the
time I don't know where he is, or what he is doing; he seldom knows where
I am; if we appear together it is accidental; I thought I had my mind made
up to leave him, and soon; but what you say, coupled with doubts I had
myself, have set me to thinking, till I don't know. I hate a scandal. You
know how careful I always have been. All my closest friends have jeered me
for a prude; there isn't a flaw he can find, there has been none!"
"Certainly not," said Leslie. "Every one knows that."
"Leslie, you don't know, do you?" asked Mrs. Minturn. "He didn't say
anything to Bruce, did he?"
"You want an honest answer?" questioned Leslie.
"Of course I do!" cried Mrs. Minturn.
"Douglas did tell me in connection with Mr. Minturn joining the
Brotherhood and taking a gamin from the streets into his office, that he
said he was scarcely allowed to see his own sons, not to exercise the
slightest control, so he was going to try his theories on a Little
Brother. But Douglas wouldn't mention it, only to me, and of course I
wouldn't repeat it to any one. Mr. Minturn seemed to feel that Douglas
thought it peculiar for a man having sons, to take so much pains with a
newsboy; they're great friends, so he said that much to Bruce."
"'He said that much----'" scoffed Mrs. Minturn.
"Well, even so, that is very little compared with what you've said about
him to me," retorted Leslie. "You shouldn't complain on that score."
"I suppose, in your eyes, I shouldn't complain about anything," said Mrs.
Minturn.
"A world of things, Mrs. Minturn, but not the ones you do," said Leslie.
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Minturn.
"I think your grievance is that you were born in, and reared for,
society," said Leslie, "and in your extremity it has failed you. I believe
I can give you more help to-day than any woman of your age and intimate
association."
"That's true Leslie, quite true!" exclaimed Mrs. Minturn eagerly. "And I
need help! Oh I do!"
"You poor soul, you!" comforted Leslie. "Turn where you belong! Turn to
your own blood!"
"My mother would jeer me for a weakling," said Mrs. Minturn. "She has
urged me to divorce James, ever since Elizabeth was born."
"I didn't mean your mother," said Leslie. "I meant closer relatives, I
meant your husband and sons."
"My husband would probably tell me he had lost all respect for me, while
my sons would very likely pull my hair and kick my shins if I knelt to
them for sympathy," said Mrs. Minturn. "They are perfect little animals."
"Oh Mrs. Minturn!" cried Leslie amazed. "Then you simply must take them in
charge and save them; they are so fine looking, while you're their mother,
you are!"
"It means giving up life as I have known it always, just about
everything!" said Mrs. Minturn.
"Look at yourself now!" said Leslie. "I should think you would be glad to
give up your present state."
"Leslie, do you think it wrong to gather those orchids?"
"I think it unpardonable sin to _exterminate_ them," answered Leslie. "If
you have any reason for wanting a few, and merely gather the flowers,
leaving the roots to spread and bloom another year, I should say take
them."
"Will you wait in the car until I go back?" she asked.
"But I wish to be alone," said Mrs. Minturn.
"You're not afraid? You won't become lost?"
"I am not afraid, and I will not lose myself," said Mrs. Minturn. "Must I
hurry?"
"Take all the time you want," said Leslie.
It was mid-afternoon when she returned, her hands filled with a dripping
moss ball in which she had embedded the stems of a mass of feathery pink-
fringed orchids. Her face was flushed with tears, but her eyes were
bright, her step quick and alert.
"Leslie, what do you think I am going to do?" she cried. Then without
awaiting a reply: "I'm going to ask James to go with me to take these to
Elizabeth, to beg him to forgive my neglect of her; to pledge the rest of
my life to him and the boys."
Leslie caught Mrs. Minturn in her arms. "Oh you darling!" she exulted. "Oh
you brave, wonderful girl!"
"After all, it's no more than fair," Mrs. Minturn said. "I have had
everything my way since we were married. And I did love James. He's the
only man I have ever really wanted. Leslie, he will forgive me and start
over, won't he?"
"He'll be at your feet!" cried Leslie.
"Fortunately, I have decided to be at his," said Mrs. Minturn. "I've
reached the place where I will even wipe James Jr.'s nose and dress
Malcolm, and fix James' studs if it will help me to sleep, and have only a
tinge of what you seem to be running over with. Leslie, you are the most
joyous soul!"
"You see, I never had to think about myself," said Leslie. "Daddy always
thought for me, so there was nothing left for me to spend my time and
thought on but him. It was a beautiful arrangement."
"Leslie, this is your car, but won't you dear, drive fast!" begged Mrs.
Minturn.
"Of course Nellie!" exclaimed the girl.
"Leslie, will you stand by me, and show me the way, all you can?" asked
Mrs. Minturn anxiously. "I'll lose every friend I have got; my house must
be torn down and built up from the basement on a new system, as to
management; and I haven't an idea _how_ to do it. Oh, I hope James can
help me."
"You may be sure James will know and can help you," comforted Leslie.
"You'll be leaving for the seashore in a few days; install a complete new
retinue, and begin all fresh. Half the servants you keep, really
interested in their work, would make you far more comfortable than you are
now."
"Yes, I think that too!" agreed Mrs. Minturn eagerly. "Some way I feel as
if I were turning against Lucette. I never want to see her again, after I
tell her to go; not that I know what I shall do without her. The boys will
probably burn down the house, and where I'll find a woman who will
tolerate them, I don't know."
"Employ a man until you get control," suggested Leslie. "They are both old
enough; hire a man, and explain all you want to him. They'd be afraid of a
man."
"Afraid!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "They are afraid of Lucette! I can't
understand it. I wonder if James----"
"Poor James!" laughed Leslie. "Honestly Nellie, don't impose too much of
your--your work on him. Undertake it yourself. Show him what a woman you
are."
"Great Heavens, Leslie, you don't know what you are saying!" cried Mrs.
Minturn. "My only hope lies in deceiving him. If I showed him the woman I
am, as I saw myself back there in that swamp an hour ago, he'd take one
look, and strangle me for the public good."
"How ridiculous!" exclaimed Leslie. "Why must a woman always rush from one
extreme to the other? Choose a middle course and keep it."
"That's what I am telling you I must do," said Mrs. Minturn. "Leslie, it
is wonderful how I feel. I'm almost flying. Do you honestly think it is
possible that there is going to be something new, something interesting,
something really worth while in the world for me?"
"I know it," said Leslie. "Such interest, such novelty, such joy as you
never have experienced!"
With that hope in her heart, her eyes filled with excitement, Nellie
Minturn rang her bell, ran past her footman and hurried up the stairs. She
laid her flowers on a table, summoned her maid, then began throwing off
her hat and outer clothing.
"Do you know if Mr. Minturn is here?"
"Yes. He----" began the maid.
"Never mind what 'he.' Get out the prettiest, simplest dress I own, and
the most becoming," she ordered. "Be quick! Can't you see I'm in a hurry?"
"Mrs. Minturn, I think you will thank me for telling you there is an awful
row in the library," said the maid.
"'An awful row?'" Mrs. Minturn paused.
"Yes. I think they are killing Lucette," explained the maid. "She's
shrieked bloody murder two or three times."
"Who? What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Minturn.
She slipped on the bathrobe she had picked up, and stood holding it
together, gazing at the maid.
"Mr. Minturn came with two men. One was a park policeman we know. They
went into the library and sent for Lucette. There she goes again!"
"Is there any way I could see, could hear, what is going on, without being
seen?"
"There's a door to the den from the back hall, and that leads to the
library," suggested the maid.
"Show me! Help me!" begged Mrs. Minturn.
As they passed the table the orchids hanging over the edge caught on the
trailing robe and started to fall. Mrs. Minturn paused to push them back,
then studied the flowers an instant, and catching up the bunch carried it
along. She closed the den door after her without a sound, and creeping
beside the wall, hid behind the door curtain and peeped into the library.
There were two men who evidently were a detective and a policeman. She saw
Lucette backed against the wall, her hands clenched, her eyes wild with
fear. She saw her husband's back, and on the table beside him a little
box, open, its wrappings near, its contents terrifying to the woman.
"To sum up then," said Mr. Minturn in tones she never before had heard: "I
can put on oath this man, who will be forced to tell what he witnessed or
be impeached by others who saw it at the same time, and _are ready to
testify to what he said;_ I can produce the boy who came to tell me the
part he took in it; I have the affidavit and have just come from the woman
who interfered and followed you here in an effort to save Elizabeth; I
have this piece of work in my hands, done by one of the greatest
scientists and two of the best surgeons living. Although you shrink from
it, I take pleasure in showing it to you. This ragged seam is an impress
of the crack you made in a tiny skull lying in a vault out at Forest
Hill."
He paused, holding a plaster cast before the woman.
"It's a little bit of a thing," he said deliberately. "She was a tiny
creature to have been done to death at your hands. I hope you will see
that small pink face as I see it, and feel the soft hair in your fingers,
and--after all, I can't go on with that. But I am telling you, and showing
you exactly what you are facing, because you must go from this house with
these men; your things will be sent. You must leave this city and this
country on the boat they take you to, and where you go you will be
watched; if ever you dare take service handling a _child_ again, I shall
have you promptly arrested and forced to answer for the cold-blooded
murder of my little daughter. Live you must, I suppose, but not longer by
the torture of children. Go, before I strangle you as you deserve!"
How Mrs. Minturn came to be standing beside her husband, she never
afterward knew; only that she was, pulling down his arm to stare at the
white cast. Then she looked up at him and said simply: "But Lucette didn't
murder her; it was I. I was her mother. I knew she was beaten. I knew she
was abused! I didn't stop my pleasure to interfere, lest I should lose a
minute by having to see to her myself! A woman did come to me, and a boy!
I knew they were telling the truth! I didn't know it was so bad, but I
knew it must have been dreadful, to bring them. I had my chance to save
her. I went to her as the woman told me to, and because she was quiet, I
didn't even turn her over. I didn't run a finger across her little head. I
didn't call a surgeon. I preferred an hour of pleasure to taking the risk
of being disturbed. I am quite as guilty as Lucette! Have them take me
with her."
James Minturn stepped back, gazing at his wife. Then he motioned the men
toward the door, so with the woman they left the room.
"Lucette just had her sentence," he said, "now for yours! Words are
useless! I am leaving your house with my sons. They _are_ my sons, and
with the proof I hold, you will not claim them. If you do, you will not
get them. I am taking them to the kind of a house I deem suitable for
them, and to such care as I can provide. I shall keep them in my presence
constantly as possible until I see just what harm has been done, and how
to remedy what can be changed. I shall provide such teachers as I see fit
for them, and devote the remainder of my life to them. All I ask of you is
to spare them the disgrace of forcing me to _prove_ my right to them, or
ever having them realize just _what_ happened to their sister, and _your_
part in it."
She held the flowers toward him.
"I brought these----" she began, then paused. "You wouldn't believe me, if
I should tell you. You are right! Perfectly justified! Of course I shall
not bring this before the public. Go!"
At the door he looked back. She had dropped into a chair beside the table,
holding the cast in one hand, the fringed orchids in the other.
CHAPTER VII
_Peaches' Preference in Blessings_
"_God ain't made a sweeter girl
'An Lily, at keeps my heart a-whirl.
If I was to tell an awful whopper,
I'd get took by the cross old copper._"
Thus chanted Mickey at his door, his hands behind him. Peaches stretched
both hers toward him as usual; but he stood still, swinging in front of
him a beautiful doll, for a little sick girl. A baby doll in a long snowy
dress and a lace cap; it held outstretched arms, but was not heavy enough
to tire small wavering hands. Peaches lunged forward until only Mickey's
agility saved her from falling. He tossed the doll on the bed, and caught
the child, the lump in his throat so big his voice was strained as he
cried: "Why you silly thing!"
With her safe he again proffered it. Peaches shut her eyes and buried her
face on his breast.
"Oh don't let me see it! Take it away!"
"Why Lily! I thought you'd be crazy about it," marvelled Mickey. "Honest I
did! The prettiest lady sent it to you. Let me tell you!"
"Giving them up is worser 'an never having them. Take it away!" wailed
Peaches.
"Well Lily!" said Mickey. "I never was stuck up about my looks, but I
didn't s'pose I looked so like a granny that you'd think _that_ of me.
Don't I seem man enough to take care of a little flowersy-girl 'thout
selling her doll? There's where I got your granny skinned a mile. I don't
booze, and I never will. Mother hammered that into me. Now look what a
pretty it is! You'll just love it! I wouldn't take it! I'd lay out anybody
who would. Come on now! Negotiate it! Get your flippers on it!"
He was holding the child gently and stroking her tumbled hair. When he put
her from him to see her face, Mickey was filled with envy because he had
been forced to admit the gift was not from him. He shut his lips tight,
but his face was grim as he studied Peaches' flushed cheeks and wet eyes,
and noted the shaking eagerness for the doll she was afraid to look at. He
reached over and put it into her arms, then piled the pillows so she could
see better, talking the while to comfort her.
"Course it is yours! Course nobody is going to take it! Course you shall
_always_ have it, and maybe a grown-up lady doll by Christmas. Who knows?"
In utter content Peaches sank against the pillows, watching Mickey, while
she gripped the baby.
"Thank you, Mickey-lovest," she said. "Oh thank you for this Precious
Child!"
"You got to thank a lady about twice my height, with dark hair, pink
cheeks, and beautiful dresses. She's got a big rest house, a lover man,
and an automobile I wish you could see, Lily," he said.
"If I was on the rags in the corner, I'd have this child--wouldn't I?"
scoffed Peaches, still clutching the doll, but her gaze on Mickey. "What
happened was, 'at she _liked you_ for something, and _give_ you the baby,
so you brought it to me. Thank you Mickey, for this Precious Child!"
Peaches lifted her lips. Mickey met them more obsessed than before. Then
she turned away, clasping the doll. Mickey could see that the tears were
slipping from under the child's closed lids, but her lips were on the doll
face, so he knew she was happy. He stole out to bring in his purchases for
supper, and begin his evening work. He gave Peaches a drink, her daily
rub, cleaned the room without making dust as the nurse had shown him, and
brought water. He shook his fist at the faucet.
"Now hereafter, nix on the butting in!" he said belligerently. "Mebby I
couldn't have got _that_ doll, but I could have got one she'd have _liked_
just as well, and earned it extra, in one day. There's one feature of the
Big Brother business that I was a little too fast on. He's the finest man
that ever wanted me, while his rooms are done shameful. I could put a
glitter on them so he could see himself with the things he has to work
with, and he said any time I wanted it, the job was mine. It wouldn't be
cheating him any if I took it, and did better work than he's getting, and
my steady papers are sure in the morning; that would be sure in the
afternoon, and if I cut ice with a buzz saw, I might get through in time
to pick up something else before coming home, and being sure beats
_hoping_ a mile, yes ten miles! Mebby I'll investigate that business a
little further, 'cause hereafter I provide for my own family. See? Lily
was grand about it. Gee! she's smart to think it out that way all in a
minute. But by and by she's going to have a lot of time to think. Then
she'll be remembering about the lady I got to tell her of 'stead of _me_,
as she _should!_ Guess I'll run my own family! I'll take another look at
cleaning that office. There ain't any lap-dog business in a job, and being
paid for it, if you do it well."
Mickey turned the faucet and marched up the stairs with head high and
shoulders square. His face was grave while he worked, but Peaches was so
happy she did not notice. When he came with her supper she kissed the
doll, then insisted on Mickey kissing it also. Such was the state of his
subjugation he commenced with "Aw!" and ended by doing as he was told. He
even helped lay the doll beside Peaches exactly as her fancy dictated, and
covered it with her sheet, putting its hands outside. Peaches was
enchanted. She insisted on offering it a drink of her milk first, and was
so tremulously careful lest she spill a drop that Mickey had to guide her
hand. He promised to wash the doll's dress if she did have an accident, or
when it became soiled, and bowed his head meekly to the crowning
concession by sitting on the edge of the bed, after he had finished his
evening work, and holding the doll where she could see it, exactly as
instructed, while he told her about his wonderful adventure.
"Began yesterday," explained Mickey. "You know I told you there was going
to be a surprise. Well this is it. When the lady gave me the ribbons for
you, she told me to come back to-night, and get it. Course I _could_ a-got
it myself. I _would_ a-got it for Christmas----"
"Oh Mickey-lovest, does Christmas come here?"
"Surest thing you know!" said Mickey. "A fat stocking full of every single
thing the Nurse Lady tell Santa Claus a little--a little flowersy-girl
that ain't so strong yet, may have, and a big lady doll and a picture
book."
"But I never had no stockings," said Peaches.
"Well you'll have by _that_ time," promised Mickey.
"Oh Mickey, I'm so glad I want to say a prayin's 'at you found _me_,
'stead of some other kid!" exulted Peaches.
"Yes Miss, and that's one thing I forgot!" said Mickey. "We'll _begin_ to-
night. You ain't a properly raised lady unless you say your prayers. I
know the one _She_ taught me. To-night will be a good time, 'cause you'll
be so thankful for your pretty ribbons and your baby, that you'll just
love to say a real thankful prayer." "Mickey, I ain't goin' to say
prayin's! I just _said_ I was," explained Peaches. "I never said none for
granny, 'cause she only told me to when she was drunk."
"No and you never had a box of ribbons to make you look so sweet, or a
baby to stay with you while I'm gone. If you ain't thankful enough for
them to say your prayers, you shouldn't have them, nor any more, nor
Christmas, nor anything, but just--_just like you was_."
Peaches blinked, gasped, digested the statements, then yielded wholly.
"I guess I'll say them. Mickey when shall I?"
"To-night 'fore you go to sleep," said Mickey.
"Now tell me about the baby," urged Peaches.
"Sure! I _was!_ I _could_ a-got it myself, like I was telling you; but the
ones in the stores have such funny clothes. They look so silly. I knew I
couldn't wash them and of course they'd get dirty like everything does,
and we couldn't _have_ them dirty, so I thought it over, and I said to
Mickey-boy, 'if the Joy Lady is so anxious to get the baby, and sew its
clothes herself, why I'll just let her,' so I did _let_ her, but it took
some time to make them, so I had to wait to bring it 'til tonight. I was
to go to her house after it, and when I got there she was coming home in
her car from a long drive, and gee, Lily, I wish you could have seen her!
She's the prettiest lady, and the most joyous lady I ever saw."
"Prettier than the Nurse Lady?" asked Peaches.
"Well different," explained Mickey. "Nurse Lady is all gold like the end
of Sunrise Alley at four o'clock in the morning. This lady has dark hair
and eyes. Both of them are as pretty as women are made, but they are not
the same. Nurse Lady is when the sun comes up, and warms and comforts the
world; but the doll-lady is like all the stars twinkling in the moonlight
on the park lake, and music playing, and everybody dancing. The doll-lady
is joy, just the Joy Lady. Gee, Lily, you should have seen her face when
the car stopped, while I was coming down the steps."
"Was she so glad to see you?" asked Peaches.
"'Twasn't me!" said Mickey. "'Twas on her face _before_ she saw me. She
was just gleaming, and shining, and spilling over joy! She isn't the kind
that would dance on the street, nor where it ain't nice to dance; but she
was dancing inside just the same. She pulled me right into that big fine
car, so I sat on the seat with her, and we went sailing, and skating, and
flying along and all the boys guying me, but I didn't care! I like to ride
in her car! I never rode in a car like that before. She went a-whizzing
right to the office of the big man, where maybe I'll work; I guess I'll go
see him tomorrow, I got a hankering for knowing what I'm going to _do_,
and _where_ I'm going to be paid for it. Well she went spinning there, and
she said 'you wait a minute,' then she ran in and pretty soon out she came
with him. His name is Mr. Douglas Bruce, and I guess it would be a little
closer what _She'd_ think right if I'd use it. And hers he calls her by,
is Leslie. Ain't that pretty? When he says 'Leslie' sounds as if he kissed
the name as it came through. Honest it does!"
"I bet he says it just like you say 'Lily!'"
"I wonder now!" grinned Mickey. "Well he came out and what she had told
him, set him crazy too. They just talked a streak, but he shook hands with
me, and she said, 'You tell the driver where to go Mickey,' and I said,
'Go where, Miss?' and she said, 'To take you home,' and I said, 'You don't
need!' and she said, 'I'd like to!' and I saw she didn't care _what_ she
did, so I just sent him to the end of the car line and saved my nickel,
and then I come on here, and both of them----"
"What?" asked Peaches eagerly.
Mickey changed the "wanted to come to see you" that had been on his lips.
If he told Peaches that, and she asked for them to come, and they came,
and then thought he was not taking care of her right, and took her away
from him--then what?
"Said good-bye the nicest," he substituted. "And I'm going to see if she
wants any more letters carried as soon as my papers are gone in the
morning, and if she does, I'm going to take them, and if one is to him,
I'm going to ask him more about the job he offered me, and if we can
agree, I'm going to take it. Then I can buy you what you want myself,
because I'll know every day exactly what I'll have, and when the rent is
counted out, and for the papers, all the rest will be for eating, and what
you need, and to save for your new back."
"My, I wisht I had it now!" cried Peaches. "I wisht I could a-rode in that
car too! Wasn't it perfeckly grand Mickey?"
"Grand as any king," said Mickey.
"What is a king?" asked Peaches.
"One of the big bosses across the ocean," explained Mickey. "You'll learn
them when you get farther with your lessons. They own most all the money,
and the finest houses, and _all the people_. Just _own_ them. Own them
so's they can tell good friends to go to it, and _kill_ each other, even
_relations_."
"And do they _do_ it?" marvelled Peaches.
"Sure they do it!" cried Mickey. "Why they are doing it _right now!_ I
could bring a paper and read you things that would make you so sick you
couldn't sit up!"
"What kind of things, Mickey?"
"About kings making all the fathers kill each other, and burn down each
other's houses, and blow up the cities, and eat all the food themselves,
and leave the mothers with no home, and no groceries, and no stove, and no
beds, and the bullets flying, and the cities burning, and no place to go,
and the children starving and dying--Gee, I ain't ever going to tell you
any more, Lily! It's too awful! You'd feel better not to know. Honest you
would! Wish I hadn't told you anything about it at all. Where's your
slate? We got to do lessons 'fore it gets so dark and we are so sleepy we
can't see."
Peaches proudly handed him the slate. In wavering lines and tremulous
curves ran her first day's work alone, over erasures, and with relinings,
in hills and deep depressions, which it is possible Mickey read because he
knew what it had to be, he proudly translated, "Mickey-lovest." Then the
lines of the night before, then "cow" and "milk." And then Mickey whooped
because he faintly recognized an effort to draw a picture of the cow and
the milk bottle.
"Grand Lily!" he cried. "Gee, you're the smartest kid I ever knew! You'll
know all I do 'fore long, and then you'll need your back, so's you can get
ready to go to a Young Ladies' Sem'nary."
"What's that?" interestedly asked Peaches.
"A school. Where other _nice_ girls go, and where you learn all that I
don't know to teach you," said Mickey.
"I won't go!" said Peaches.
"Oh yes you will, Miss," said Mickey. "'Cause you're my family, so you'll
do as I say."
"Will you go with me?" asked Peaches.
"Sure! I'll take you there in a big au----Oh, I don't know as I will
either. We'll have to save our money, if we _both_ go. We'll go on a
_street_ car, and walk up a grand av'noo among trees, and I'll take you
in, and see if your room is right, and everything, and all the girls will
like you 'cause you're so smart, and your hair's so pretty, and then I'll
go to a boys' school close by, and learn how to make poetry pieces that
beat any in the papers. Every time I make a new one I'll come and ask, 'Is
Miss Lily--Miss Lily Peaches----' Gee kid, _what's your name?_"
Mickey stared at Peaches, while she stared back at him.
"I don't know," she said. "Do you care, Mickey?"
"What was your granny's?" asked Mickey.
"I don't know," answered Peaches.
"Was she your mother's mother?" persisted Mickey.
"Yes," replied Peaches.
"Did you ever see your father?" Mickey went on.
"I don't know nothing about fathers," she said.
Mickey heaved a deep sigh.
"Well! _That's_ over!" he said. "_I_ know something about fathers. I know
a lot. I know that you are no worse off, not knowing _who_ your father was
than to know he was so _mean_ that you are _glad_ he's dead. Your way
leaves you _hoping_ that he was just awful nice, and got killed, or was
taken sick or something; my way, there ain't no doubts in your mind. You
are plumb sure he wasn't decent. Don't you bother none about fathers!"
"My I'm glad, Mickey!" cried Peaches joyously.
"So am I," said Mickey emphatically. "We don't want any fathers coming
here to butt in on us, just as we get your back Carreled and you ready to
start to school."
"Can I go without a _name_ Mickey?" asked Peaches.
"Course not!" said Mickey. "You have to put your name on a roll the first
thing, then you must be interdooced to the Head Lady and all the girls."
"What'll I do Mickey?" anxiously inquired Peaches.
"Well, for smart as you are in some spots, you're awful dumb in others,"
commented Mickey. "What'll you do, saphead? Gee! Ain't you _mine?_ Ain't
you my _family?_ Ain't _my name_ good enough for you? Your name will be
Miss Lily Peaches O'Halloran. That's a name good enough for a Queen Lady!"
"What's a Queen?" inquired Peaches.
"Wife of those kings we were just talking about."
"Sure!" said Peaches. "None of them have a nicer name than that! Mickey,
is my bow straight?"
"Naw it ain't!" said Mickey. "Take the baby 'til I fix it! It's about
slipped off! There! That's better."
"Mickey, let me see it!" suggested Peaches.
Mickey brought the mirror. She looked so long he grew tired and started to
put it back, but she clung to it.
"Just lay it on the bed," she said.
"Naw I don't, Miss Chicken--O'Halloran!" he said. "Mirrors cost money, and
if you pull the sheet in the night, and slide ours off, and it breaks, we
got seven years of bad luck coming, and we are nix on changing the luck we
have right now. It's good enough for us. Think of them Belgium kids where
the kings are making the fathers fight. This goes where it belongs, then
you take your drink, and let me beat your pillow, and you fix your baby,
and then we'll say our prayers, and go to sleep."
Mickey replaced the mirror and carried out the program he had outlined.
When he came to the prayer he ordered Peaches to shut her eyes, fold her
hands and repeat after him:
"'Now I lay me down to sleep'"----
Peaches' eyes opened.
"Oh, is it a poetry prayer, Mickey?" she asked.
"Yes. Kind of a one. Say it," answered Mickey.
Peaches obeyed, repeating the words lingeringly and in her sweetest tones.
Mickey thrilled to his task.
"'I pray the Lord my soul to keep'"----he proceeded.
"What's my soul, Mickey?" she asked.
"The very nicest thing inside of you," explained Mickey. "Go on!"
"Like my heart?" questioned Peaches.
"Yes. Only nicer," said Mickey. "Shut your eyes and go on!"
Peaches obeyed.
"'If I should die before I wake'"----continued Mickey.
Peaches' eyes flashed open; she drew back in horror.
"I won't!" she cried. "I won't _say_ that. That's what happened to granny,
an' I saw. She was the awfullest, an' then--the men came. I _won't!_"
Mickey opened his eyes, looking at Peaches, his lips in a set line, his
brow wrinkled in thought.
"Well I don't know what they went and put _that_ in for," he said
indignantly. "Scaring little kids into fits! It's all right when you don't
_know_ what it means, but when kids has been through what we have, it's
different. I wouldn't say it either. You wait a minute. I can beat that
myself. Let me think. Now I got it! Shut your eyes and go on:
"If I should come to live with Thee----"
"Well I ain't goin'!" said Peaches flatly. "I'm goin' to stay right here
with you. I'd a lot rather than anywhere. King's house or anywhere!"
"I never saw such a kid!" wailed Mickey. "I think that's pretty. I like it
heaps. Come on Peaches! Be good! Listen! The next line goes: 'Open loving
arms to shelter me.' Like the big white Jesus at the Cathedral door. Come
on now!"
"I _won't!_ I'm goin' to live right here, and I don't want no big white
Jesus' arms; I want _yours_. 'F I go anywhere, you got to lift me
yourself, and let me take my Precious Child along."
"Lily, you're the worst kid I ever saw," said Mickey. "No you ain't
either! I know a lot worse than you. You just don't understand. I guess
you better pray something you _do_ understand. Let me think again. Now try
this: Keep me through the starry night----"
"Sure! I just love that," crooned Peaches.
"Wake me safe with sunrise bright," prompted Mickey, and the child
smilingly repeated the words. "Now comes some 'Blesses,'" said Mickey. "I
don't know just how to manage them. You haven't a father to bless, and
your mother got what was coming to her long ago; blessing her now wouldn't
help any if it wasn't pleasant; same with your granny, only more recent.
I'll tell you! Now I know! 'Bless the Sunshine Lady for all the things to
make me comfortable, and bless the Moonshine Lady for the ribbons and the
doll.'"
"Aw!" cried Peaches, staring up at him in rebellion.
"Now you go on, Miss Chicken," ordered Mickey, losing patience, "and then
you end with 'Amen,' which means, 'So be it,' or 'Make it happen that
way,' or something like that. Go to it now!"
Peaches shut her eyes, refolded her hands and lifted her chin. After a
long pause Mickey was on the point of breaking, she said sweetly: "Bless
Mickey-lovest, an' bless him, an' bless him million times; an' bless him
for the bed, an' the window, an' bless him for finding the Nurse Lady, an'
bringing the ribbons, an' the doll, an' bless him for the slate, an' the
teachin's, an' bless him for everything I just love, an' love. Amen--
hard!"
When Peaches opened her eyes she found Mickey watching her, a commingling
of surprise and delight on his face. Then he bent over and laid his cheek
against hers.
"You fool little kid," he whispered tenderly. "You precious fool little
flowersy-kid! You make a fellow love you 'til he nearly busts inside. Kiss
me good-night, Lily."
He slipped the ribbon from her hair, straightened the sheets, arranged as
the nurse had taught him, laid the doll as Peaches desired, and then
screened by the foot of the bed, undressed and stretched himself on the
floor. The same moon that peeped in the window to smile her broadest at
Peaches and her Precious Child, and touched Mickey's face to wondrous
beauty, at that hour also sent shining bars of light across the veranda
where Leslie sat and told Douglas Bruce about the trip to the swamp.
"I never knew I could be so happy over anything in all this world that
didn't include you and Daddy. But of course this does in a way; you, at
least. Much as you think of, and are with, Mr. Minturn, you can't help
being glad that joy has come to him at last. Why don't you say something,
Douglas?"
"I have been effervescing ever since you came to the office after me, and
I find now that the froth is off, I'm getting to the solid facts in the
case, and, well I don't want to say a word to spoil your joyous day, but
I'm worried, 'Bringer of Song.'"
"Worried?" cried Leslie. "Why? You don't think he wouldn't be pleased? You
don't think he might not be--responsive, do you?"
"Think of the past years of neglect, insult and humiliation!" suggested
Douglas.
"Think of the future years of loving care, reparation and joy!" commented
Leslie.
"Please God they outweigh!" said Douglas. "Of course they will! It must be
a few things I've seen lately that keep puzzling me."
"What have you seen, Douglas?" questioned Leslie.
"Deals in real estate," he answered. "Consultations with detectives and
policemen, scientists and surgeons."
"But what could that have to do with Nellie Minturn?"
"Nothing, I hope," said Douglas, "but there has been a grimness about
Minturn lately, a going ahead with jaws set that looks ugly for what
opposes him, and you tell me they have been in opposition ever since they
married. I can't put him from my thoughts as I saw him last."
"And I can't her," said Leslie. "She was a lovely picture as she came
across the silver moss carpet, you know that gray green, Douglas, her face
flushed, her eyes wet, her arms full of those perfectly beautiful,
lavender-pink fringed orchids. She's a handsome woman, dearest, and she
never looked quite so well to me as when she came picking her way beneath
the dark tamarack boughs. She was going to ask him to go with her to take
her flowers to Elizabeth, and over that little white casket she intended--
Why Douglas, he couldn't, he simply couldn't!"
"Suppose he had something previously worked out that cut her off!"
"Oh Douglas! What makes you think such a thing?"
"What Minturn said to me this morning with such bitterness on his face and
in his voice as I never before encountered in man," Douglas answered.
"He said----?" prompted Leslie.
"This is my _last_ day as a _laughing-stock_ for my fellowmen! To-morrow I
shall hold up my head!"
"Why didn't you tell me that _before?_"
"Didn't realize until just now that you and she hadn't _seen_ him--that
you were acting on presumption.
"I'm going to call her!" cried Leslie.
"I wouldn't!" advised Douglas.
"Why not?"
"After as far as she went to-day, if she had anything she wanted you to
know, wouldn't she feel free to call you?"
"You are right," conceded Leslie. "Even after to-day, for me to call would
be an intrusion. Let's not talk of it further! Don't you wish we could
take a peep at Mickey carrying the doll to the little sick girl?"
"I surely do!" answered Douglas. "What do you think of him, Leslie?"
"Great! Simply great!" cried the girl. "Douglas you should have heard him
educate me on the doll question."
"How?" he asked interestedly.
"From the first glimpse I had of him, the thought came to me, 'That's
Douglas' Little Brother'" she explained. "When you telephoned and said you
were sending him to me, just one idea possessed me: to get what you
wanted. Almost without thought at all I tried the first thing he
mentioned, which happened to be a little sick neighbour girl he told me
about. All girls like a doll, and I had one dressed for a birthday gift
for a namesake of mine, and time plenty to fix her another. I brought it
to Mickey and thought he'd be delighted."
"Was he rude?" inquired Douglas anxiously.
"Not in the least!" she answered. "Only casual! Merely made me see how
thoughtless and unkind and positively vulgar my idea of pleasing a poor
child was."
"Leslie, you shock me!" exclaimed Douglas.
"I mean every word of it," said the girl. "Now listen to me! It _is_
thoughtless to offer a gift headlong, without considering a second, is it
not?"
"Merely impulsive," replied Douglas.
"Identically the same thing!" declared Leslie. "Listen I said! Without a
thought about suitability, I offered an extremely poor child the gift I
had prepared for a very rich one. Mickey made me see in ten words that it
would be no kindness to fill his little friend's head with thoughts that
would sadden her heart with envy, make her feel all she lacked more keenly
than ever; give her a gift that would breed dissatisfaction instead of
joy; if that isn't vulgarity, what is? Mickey's Lily has no business with
a doll so gorgeous the very sight of it brings longing, instead of
comfort. It was unkind to offer a gift so big and heavy it would tire and
worry her."
"There _are_ some ideas there on giving!"
"Aren't there though!" said Leslie. "Mickey took about three minutes to
show me that Lily was _satisfied_ as she was, so no one would thank me for
awakening discontent in her heart. He measured off her size and proved to
me that a small doll, that would not tire her to handle, would be
suitable, and so dressed that its clothes could be washed and would be
plain as her own. Even further! Once my brain began working I saw that a
lady doll with shoes and stockings to suggest outdoors and walking, was
not a kind gift to make a bedridden child. Douglas, after Mickey started
me I arose by myself to the point of seeing that a little cuddly baby
doll, helpless as she, one that she could nestle, and play with lying in
bed would be the proper gift for Lily. Think of a 'newsy' making me see
_that!_ Isn't he wonderful?"
"You should have heard him making me see things!" said Douglas. "Yours are
faint and feeble to the ones he taught me. Refused me at every point, and
marched away leaving me in utter rout! Outside wanting you for my wife,
more than anything else on earth, I wanted Mickey for my Little Brother."
"You have him!" comforted the girl. "The Lord arranged that. You remember
He said, 'All men are brothers,' and wasn't it Tolstoy who wrote: 'If
people would only understand that they are not the sons of some fatherland
or other, nor of governments, but are sons of God?' You and Mickey will
get your brotherhood arranged to suit both of you some of these days."
"Exactly!" conceded Douglas. "But I wanted Mickey at hand now! I wanted
him to come and go with me. To be educated with what I consider
education."
"It will come yet," prophesied Leslie. "Your ideas are splendid! I see how
fine they are! The trouble is this: you had a plan mapped out at which
Mickey was to jump. Mickey happened to have preconceived ideas on the
subject, so he didn't jump. You wanted to be the king on the throne and
stretch out a royal hand," laughed Leslie. "You wanted to lift Mickey to
your level, and with the inherent fineness in him, have him feel eternal
love and gratitude toward you?"
"That sounds different, but it is the real truth."
"And Mickey doesn't care to be brother to kings, he doesn't perceive the
throne even; he wants you to understand at the start that you will _take_,
as well as _give_. Refusing pay for tidying your office was his first
inning. That 'Me to you!' was great. I can see the accompanying gesture.
It was the same one he used in demolishing my doll. Something vital and
inborn. Something loneliness, work, the crowd, and raw life have taught
Mickey, that we don't know. Learn all you can from him. I've had one good
lesson, I'm receptive and ready for the next. Let's call the car and drive
an hour."
"That will be pleasant," agreed Douglas.
"Anywhere in the suburbs to avoid the crowds," was Leslie's order to her
driver.
Slowly, under traffic regulations, the car ran through the pleasant spring
night; the occupants talking without caring where they were so long as
they were together, in motion, and it was May. They were passing
residences where city and country met. The dwellings of people city bound,
country determined. Homes where men gave so many hours to earning money,
then sped away to train vines, prune trees, dig in warm earth and make
things grow. Such men now crossed green lawns and talked fertilizers, new
annuals, tree surgery, and carried gifts of fragrant, blooming things to
their friends. Here the verandas were wide and children ran from them to
grassy playgrounds; on them women read or sat with embroidery hoops or
visited in small groups.
"Let's move," said Leslie. "Let's coax Daddy to sell our place and come
here. One wouldn't ever need go summering, it's cool and pleasant always.
I'd love it! There's a new house and a lawn under old trees, to shelter
playing children; isn't it charming?"
"Quite! But that small specimen seems refractory."
Leslie leaned forward to see past him. In an open door stood a man clearly
silhouetted against the light. Down the steps sped a screaming boy about
nine. After him ran another five or six years older. When the child saw he
would be overtaken, he headed straight for the street; as the pursuer's
hand brushed him, he threw himself kicking and clawing. The elder boy
hesitated, looking for an opening to find a hold. The car was half a block
away when Leslie turned a white face to Douglas and gasped inarticulately.
He understood something was wrong so signalled the driver to stop.
"Turn and pass those children again!" ordered Leslie.
As the car went by slowly the second time, the child still fought, the boy
stepped back, while James Minturn with grim face, bent under the light and
by force took into his arms the twisting, fighting boy.
"Heaven help him!" cried Douglas. "Not a sign of happy reconciliation
there!"
Leslie tried to choke down her sobs.
"Oh Nellie Minturn! Poor woman!" she wailed.
"So _that's_ what he was doing!" marvelled Douglas. "A house he has built
to suit himself; training his sons personally, with the assistance of his
Little Brother. That boy was William. I see him in Minturn's office every
day."
"Oh I think he might have given her a chance!" protested Leslie. "Remember
how she was reared! Think what a struggle it was for her even to
contemplate trying to be different."
"Evidently she was too late!" said Douglas. "He must have been gone before
you returned from the swamp."
"I'm going back there and tell him a few things! I think he might have
waited. Douglas, I'm afraid he did wait! She said he told her he wanted to
talk with her when she came back--and oh Douglas, she said he had a small
box and he threatend to 'freeze her soul with its contents!' Douglas,
_what_ could he have had?"
"'Freeze her soul!' Let me think!" said Douglas. "I met Professor Tickner
and Dr. Wills coming from his offices a few days ago, while he's just back
from a trip that he didn't tell me he was taking----
"You mean Tickner, the scientist; Wills, the surgeon?"
"Yes," answered Douglas.
"But those children! Aren't they perfectly healthy?"
"They look it! Lord, Leslie!" cried Douglas, "I have it! He _has_ made
good his threat. He has frozen her soul! What you want to do is to go to
her, Leslie!"
"Douglas, tell me!" she demanded.
"I can't!" said Douglas. "I may be mistaken. I think I am not, but there
is always a chance! Drive to the Minturn residence," he ordered.
They found a closed dark pile of stone.
"Go past that place where the children were again!" said Leslie.
The upper story was quiet. Outlined by veranda lights the massive form of
James Minturn paced back and forth under the big trees, his hands clasped
behind him, his head bowed, and he walked alone.
"Douglas, I'm going to speak to him. I'm going to tell him!" declared
Leslie.
"But you're now conceding that _she_ saw him!" Douglas pointed out. "Then
what have you to tell him that she would not? If she couldn't move him
with what she said, and while you don't know his side, what could you say
to him?"
"Nothing," she conceded.
"Precisely my opinion," said Douglas. "Remember Leslie I am a little ahead
of you in this. You know _her_ side. I know all you have told me of her,
also I know what he has told me; while putting what I have seen, and heard
at the office, and him here with the boys, in a house she would consider
too plebeian for words----"
"No Douglas. No! She is changed!" cried Leslie. "Completely changed, I
tell you! She said she would wipe Malcolm's nose and fix James' studs----"
"Mere figures of speech!" remarked Douglas.
"They meant she was ready to work with her own hands for happiness," said
Leslie indignantly.
"I think she's too late!" said Douglas. "I am afraid she is one of the
unhappiest women in the world to-night!"
"Douglas, it wrings my heart!" cried Leslie.
"Mine also, but what can we do?" he answered. "For ten years, she has
persisted in having her way, you tell me; what could she have expected?"
"That he would have some heart," protested Leslie. "That he would forgive
when he was asked, as all of us are commanded to."
"Does it occur to you that he might have confronted her with something
that prevented her from asking?" suggested Douglas. "She may never have
reached her flowers and her proposed concessions."
"What makes you think so?" queried Leslie.
"What I see and surmise, and a thing I know."
"What can I do?" asked Leslie.
"Nothing!" Douglas said with finality. "If either of them wants you, they
know where to find you. But you're tired now. Let's give the order for
home."
"Shan't sleep a wink to-night!" prophesied Leslie.
"I was afraid of that!" exclaimed Douglas. "There may be a message there
for you that will be a comfort."
"So there may be! Let's hurry!" urged the girl.
There was. They found a brief, pencilled note.
DEAR LESLIE:
_After to-day, it was due you to send a word. You tried so hard dear, and
you gave me real joy for an hour. Then James carried out his threat. He
did all to me he intended, and more than he can ever know. I have agreed
to him taking full possession of the boys, and going into a home such as
he thinks suitable. They will be far better off, and since they scarcely
know me, they can't miss me. Before you receive this, I shall have left
the city. I can't state just now where I am going or what I shall do. You
can realize a little of my condition. If ever you are tired of home life
and faintly tempted to neglect it for society, use me for your horrible
example. Good-bye,_
NELLIE MINTURN.
Leslie read this aloud.
"It's a relief to know that much," she said with a deep breath. "I can't
imagine myself ever being 'faintly tempted," but if I am, surely she is
right about the 'horrible example.' Douglas, whatever did James Minturn
have in that box?"
"I could tell you what I surmise, but so long as I don't _know_ I'd better
not," he answered.
"As our mutual friend Mickey would say, 'Nix on the Swell Dames,' for me!"
said Leslie determinedly.
"Thank God with all my heart!" cried Douglas Bruce.
CHAPTER VIII
_Big Brother_
"I've no time to talk," said Douglas Bruce, as Mickey appeared the
following day; "my work seems too much for one man. Can you help me?"
"Sure!" said Mickey, wadding his cap into his back pocket. Then he rolled
his sleeves a turn higher, lifted his chin a trifle and stepped forward.
"Say what!"
It caught Douglas so suddenly there was no time for concealment. He
laughed heartily.
"That's good!" he cried. Mickey grinned in comradeship. "First, these
letters to the box in the hall."
"Next?" Mickey queried as he came through the door.
"This package to the room of the Clerk in the City Hall, and bring back a
receipt bearing his signature."
Mickey saluted, laid the note inside the cover of a book, put it in the
middle of the package, and a second later his gay whistle receded down the
hall.
"'Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not
depart from it,'" Douglas quoted. "Mickey has been trained until he would
make a good trainer himself."
In one-half the time the trip had taken the messenger boys Douglas was
accustomed to employing, Mickey was back like the Gulf in the Forum,
demanding "more."
"See what you can do for these rooms, until the next errand is ready,"
suggested Douglas.
Mickey began gathering up the morning papers, straightening the rugs,
curtains and arranging the furniture.
"Hand this check to the janitor," said Douglas. "And Mickey, kindly ask
him if two dollars was what I agreed to pay him for my extras this week."
"Sure!" said Mickey.
Douglas would have preferred "Yes sir," but "Sure!" was a permanent
ejaculation decorating the tip of Mickey's tongue. The man watching
closely did not fail to catch the flash of interest and the lifting of the
boy figure as he paused for instructions. When he returned Douglas said
casually: "While I am at it, I'll pay off my messenger service. Take this
check to the address and bring a receipt for the amount."
Mickey's comment came swiftly: "Gee! that boy would be sore, if he lost
his job!"
"Messenger Service Agency," Douglas said, busy at his desk. "No boy would
lose his job."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mickey comprehendingly. His face lighted at the
information. Next he carried a requisition for books to another city
official and telephoned a cafe to deliver a pitcher of lemonade and some
small cakes, and handed the boy a dime.
"Why didn't you send me and save your silver?"
"I did not think," answered Bruce. "Some one gets the tip, you might as
well have had it."
"I didn't mean me _have_ it, I meant you _save_ it."
"Mickey," said Douglas, "you know perfectly I can't take your time unless
you accept from me what I am accustomed to paying other boys."
"Letting others bleed you, you mean," said Mickey indignantly. "Why I'd a-
been glad to brought the juice for five! You never ought to paid more."
"Should have paid more," corrected Douglas.
"'Should have paid more,'" repeated Mickey. "Thanks!"
"Now try this," said Douglas, filling two glasses.
"'Tain't usual!" said Mickey. "You drink that yourself or save it for
friends that may drop in."
"Very well!" said Douglas. "Of course you might have it instead of the boy
who comes after the pitcher, but if you don't like it----"
"All right if that's the way!" agreed Mickey.
He retired to a window seat, enjoyed the cool drink and nibbled the cake,
his eyes deeply thoughtful. When offered a second glass Mickey did not
hesitate.
"Nope!" he said conclusively. "A fellow's head and heels work better when
his stomach is running light. I can earn more not to load up with a lot of
stuff. I eat at home when my work is finished. She showed me that."
"She showed you a good many things, didn't She?"
"Sure!" said Mickey. "She was my mother, so we had to look out for
ourselves. When you got nothing but yourself between you and the wolf, you
learn to fly, and keep your think-tank in running order. She knew just
what was coming to me, so She _showed_ me, and _every single thing She
said has come, and then some!_"
"I see!" said Douglas. "A wise mother!"
"Sure!" agreed Mickey. "But I guess it wouldn't have done either of us
much good if I hadn't remembered and kept straight on doing what she
taught me."
"You are right, it wouldn't," conceded Douglas.
"That's where I'm going to climb above some of the other fellows,"
announced Mickey confidently. "Either they didn't have mothers to teach
them or else they did, and forget, or think the teaching wasn't worth
anything. Now me, I _know_ She was right! She always _proved_ it! She had
been up against it longer than I had and She knew, so I am going to go
right along doing as She said. I'll beat them, and carry double at that!"
"How double, Mickey?" inquired Douglas.
"I didn't mean to say that," he explained. "That was a slip. There's a--
there's something----something I'm trying to do that costs more than it
does to live. I'm bound to do it, so I got to run light and keep my lamps
polished for chances. What next, sir?"
"Call 9-40-X, and order my car here," said Douglas.
He bent over his papers to hide his face when from an adjoining room
drifted Mickey's voice in clear enunciation and suave intonation: "Mr.
Douglas Bruce desires his car to be sent immediately to the Iroquois
Building."
His mental comment was: "The little scamp has drifted to street lingo when
he lacked his mother to restrain him. He can speak a fairly clean grade of
English now if he chooses."
"Next?" briskly inquired Mickey.
"Now look here," said Douglas. "This isn't a horse race. I earn my living
with my brains, not my heels. I must have time to think things out; when
your next job arrives I'll tell you. If you are tired, take a nap on that
couch in there." "Asleep at the switch!" marvelled Mickey.
He went to the adjoining room but did not sleep. He quietly polished and
straightened furniture, lingered before bookcases and was at Douglas'
elbow as he turned to call him. Then they closed the offices and went to
the car, each carrying a load of ledgers.
"You do an awful business!" commented Mickey. "Your car?"
"Yes," answered Douglas.
"You're doing grand, for young as you are."
"I haven't done it all myself, Mickey," explained Douglas. "I happened to
select a father who was of an acquisitive turn of mind. He left me enough
that I can have a comfortable living in a small way, from him."
"Gee! It's lucky you got the Joy Lady then!" exclaimed Mickey. "Maybe you
wouldn't ever work if you didn't have her to scratch for!"
"I always have worked and tried to make something of myself," said
Douglas.
"Yes, I guess you have," conceded Mickey. "I think it shows when a man
does. It just shows a lot on you."
"Thank you, Mickey! Same to you!"
"Aw, nix on me!" said Mickey. "I ain't nothing on looks! I ain't ever
looked at myself enough that if I was sent to find Michael O'Halloran I
mightn't bring in some other fellow."
"But you're enough acquainted with yourself that you wouldn't bring in a
dirty boy with a mouth full of swearing and beer," suggested Douglas.
"Well not this evening!" cried Mickey. "On a gamble that ain't my
picture!"
"If it were, you wouldn't be here!" said Douglas.
"No, nor much of any place else 'cept the gutters, alleys, and the police
court," affirmed Mickey. "That ain't my style! I'd like to be--well--about
like you."
"You are perfectly welcome to all I have and am," said Douglas. "If you
fail to take advantage of the offer, it will be your own fault."
"Yes, I guess it will," reflected Mickey. "You gave me the chance. I am to
blame if I don't cop on to it, and get in the game. I like you fine! Your
work is more interesting than odd jobs on the street, and you pay like a
plute. You're being worked though. You pay too much. If I work for you it
would save you money to let me manage that; I could get you help and
things a lot cheaper, then you could spend what you save on the Joy Lady,
making her more joyous."
"You are calling Miss Winton the Joy Lady?"
"Yes," said Mickey. "Doesn't she just look it?"
"She surely does," agreed Douglas. "It's a good title. I know only two
that are better. She sows happiness everywhere. What about your Lily girl
and her doll?"
"Doll doesn't go. That's a Precious Child!"
"I see! Lily is a little girl you like, Mickey?"
"Lily is the littlest girl you ever saw," answered Mickey, "with a bad
back so that she hasn't ever walked; and she's so sweet--she's the only
thing I've got to love, so I love her 'til it hurts. Her back is one thing
I'm saving for. I'm going to have it Carreled as soon as I get money, and
she grows strong enough to stand it."
"'Carreled?'" queried Douglas wonderingly.
"You know the man who put different legs on a dog?" said Mickey. "I often
read about him in papers I sell. I think he can fix her back. But not yet.
A Sunshine Nurse I know says nobody can help her back 'til she grows a lot
stronger and fatter. She has to have milk and be rubbed with oil, and not
be jerked for a while before it's any use to begin on her back."
"And has she the milk and the oil and the kindness?"
"You just bet she has," said Mickey. "Her family tends to that. And she
has got a bed, and a window, and her Precious Child, and a slate, and
books."
"That's all right then," said Douglas. "Any time you see she needs
anything Mickey, I'd be glad if you would tell me or Miss Winton. She
loves to do kind things to little sick children to make them happier."
"So do I," said Mickey. "And Lily is _my_ job. But that isn't robbing Miss
Joy Lady. She can love herself to death if she wants to on hundreds of
little, sick, cold, miserable children, in every cellar and garret and
tenement of the east end of Multiopolis. The only kind thing God did for
them out there was to give them the first chance at sunrise. Multiopolis
hasn't ever followed His example by giving them anything."
"You mean Miss Winton can find some other child to love and care for?"
asked Douglas.
"Sure!" said Mickey emphatically. "It's hands off Lily. Her family is
taking care of her, so she's got all she needs right now."
"That's good!" said Bruce. "Here we unload."
They entered a building and exchanged the books they carried for others
which Douglas selected with care, then returning to the office, locked
them in a safe.
"Now I am driving to the golf grounds for an hour's play," said Douglas.
"Will you go and caddy for me?"
"I never did. I don't know how," answered Mickey.
"You can learn, can't you?" suggested Douglas.
"Sure!" said Mickey. "I've seen boys carrying golf clubs that hadn't
enough sense to break stone right. I can learn, but my learning might
spoil your day's sport."
"It would be no big price to pay for an intelligent caddy," replied
Douglas.
"Mr. Bruce, what price is an intelligent caddy worth?"
"Our Scotch Club pays fifty cents a game and each man employs his own boy
if he chooses. The club used to furnish boys, but since the Big Brother
movement began, so many of the men have boys in their offices they are
accustomed to, and want to give a run over the hills after the day's work,
that the rule has been changed. I can employ you, if you want to serve
me."
"I'd go to the _country_ in the car with you, every day you play, and
carry your clubs?" asked Mickey wonderingly.
"Yes," answered Douglas.
"Over real hills, where there's trees, grass, cows and water?" questioned
Mickey.
"Yes," repeated Douglas.
"What time would we get back?" he asked.
"Depends on how late I play, and whether I have dinner at the club house,
say seven as a rule, maybe ten or later at times."
"Nothing doing!" said Mickey promptly. "I got to be home at six by the
clock every day, even if we were engaged in 'hurling back the enemy.'
See?"
"But Mickey! That spoils everything!" cried Douglas. "Of course you could
work for me the remainder of the day if you wanted to, and I could keep my
old clubhouse caddy, but I want _you_. You want the ride in the country,
you want the walk, you _need_ the change and recreation. You are not a
real boy if you don't want that!"
"I'm so real, I'm two boys if _wanting_ it counts, but it doesn't!" said
Mickey. "You see I got a _job_ for evening. I'm promised. I'd rather do
what you want than anything I ever saw or heard of, except just this. I've
given my word, and I'm depended on. I couldn't give up this work, and I
wouldn't, if I could. Even golf ain't in it with this job that I'm on."
"What is your work Mickey?"
"Oh I ain't ever exactly certain," said Mickey. "Sometimes it is one
thing, sometimes it is another, but always it's something, and it's work
for a party I couldn't disappoint, not noways, not for all the golf in the
world."
"You are sure?" persisted Douglas.
"Dead sure with no changing," said Mickey.
"All right then. I'm sorry!" exclaimed Douglas.
"So am I," said Mickey. "But not about the job!"
Douglas laughed. "Well come along this evening and look on. I'll be back
before six and I'll run you where we did last night, if that is close your
home."
"Thanks," said Mickey. "I'd love to, but you needn't bother about taking
me home. I can make it if I start at six. Shall I take the things back to
the cafe?" "Let them go until morning," said Douglas.
"What becomes of the little cakes?"
"Their fate is undecided. Have you any suggestions?"
"I should worry!" he exclaimed. "They'd fit my pocket. I could hike past
the hospital and ask the Sunshine Lady; if she said so, I could take them
to Lily. Bet she never tasted any like them. If it's between her and the
cafe selling them over, s'pose she takes the cake?"
Mickey's face was one big insinuating, suggestive smile. Douglas' was
another.
"Suppose she does," he agreed.
"I must wrap them," said Mickey. "Have to be careful about Lily. If she's
fed dirty, wrong stuff, it will make fever so her back will get worse
instead of better."
"Will a clean envelope do?" suggested Douglas.
"That would cost you two cents," said Mickey. "Haven't you something
cheaper?"
"What about a sheet of paper?" hazarded Douglas.
"Fine!" said Mickey, "and only half as expensive."
So they wrapped the little cakes and closed the office. Then Douglas said:
"Now this ends work for the day. Next comes playtime."
"Then before we begin to play we ought to finish business," said Mickey.
"I have been thinking over what you said the other day, and while I was
right about some of it, I was mistaken about part. I ain't changing
anything I said about Minturn men and his sort, and millyingaire men and
their sort; but you ain't that kind of a man----"
"Thank you, Mickey," said Douglas.
"No you ain't that _kind_ of a man," continued Mickey. "And you are just
the kind of a man I'd _like_ to be; so if the door ain't shut, guess I'll
stick around afternoons."
"Not all day?" inquired Douglas.
"Well you see I am in the paper business and that takes all morning,"
explained Mickey. "I can always finish my first batch by noon, lots of
times by ten; from that on to six I could work for you."
"Don't you think you could earn more with me, and in the winter at least,
be more comfortable?" asked Douglas.
"Winter!" cried Mickey, his face whitening.
"Yes," said Douglas. "The newsboys always look frightfully cold in
winter."
"Winter!" It was a piteous cry.
"What is it, Mickey?" questioned Bruce kindly.
"You know I _forgot_ it," he said. "I was so took up with what I was
doing, and thinking right now, that I forgot a time ever was coming when
it gets blue cold, and little kids freeze. Gee! I almost wish I hadn't
thought of it. I guess I better sell my paper business, and come with you
all day. I _know_ I could earn more. I just sort of _hate_ to give up the
papers. I been at them so long. I've had such a good time. 'I like to sell
papers!' That's the way I always start my cry, and I do. I just love to. I
sell to about the same bunch every morning, and most of my men know me,
and they always say a word, and I like the rush and excitement and the
things that happen, and the looking for chances on the side----"
"There's messenger work in my business."
"I see! I like that! I like your work all right," said Mickey. "Gimme a
few days to sell my route to the best advantage I can, and I'll come all
day. I'll come for about a half what you are paying now."
"But you admit you need money urgently."
"Well not so urgently as to skin a friend to get it--not even with the
winter I hadn't thought of coming. Gee--I don't know just what I am going
to do about that."
"For yourself, Mickey?" inquired Douglas.
"Well in a way, yes," hesitated Mickey. "There are things to _think_
about! Gee I got to hump myself while the sun shines! If you say so, then
I'll get out of the paper business as soon as I can; and I'll begin work
for you steady at noon to-morrow. I've seen you pay out over seven to-day.
I'll come for six. Is it a bargain?"
"No," said Douglas, "it isn't! The janitor bill was for a week of half-
done work. The messenger bill was for two days, no caddying at all. If you
come you will come for not less than eight and what you earn extra over
that. I don't agree to better service for less pay. If you will have
things between us on a commercial basis, so will I."
"Oh the Big Brother business would be all right--with you," conceded
Mickey, "but I don't just like the way it's managed, mostly. God didn't
make us brothers no more than he did all men, so we better not butt in and
try to fix things over for Him. Looks to me like we might cut the brother
business and just be _friends_. I could be an awful good _friend_ to you,
honest I could!"
"And I to you Mickey," said Douglas Bruce, holding out his hand. "Have it
as you will. Friends, then! Look for you at noon to-morrow. Now we play.
Hop in and we'll run to my rooms and get my clubs."
"Shall I sit up with your man?" asked Mickey.
"My friends sit beside me," said Douglas. Mickey spoke softly: "Yes, but
if I watched him sharp, maybe I could get the hang of driving for you.
Think what a lump that would save. When I'm going, I'd love to drive, just
for the fun of it."
"And I wouldn't allow you to drive for less than I pay him," said Douglas.
"I don't see why!" exclaimed Mickey.
"When you grow older and know me better, you will."
While the car was running its smoothest, while the country Mickey had not
seen save on rare newsboy excursions, flashed past, while the wonder of
the club house, the links, and the work he would have loved to do
developed, he shivered and cried in his tormented little soul: "Gee, how
will I ever keep Lily warm?" Douglas noticed his abstraction and wondered.
He had expected more appreciation of what Mickey was seeing and doing; he
was coming to the realization that he would find out what was in the boy's
heart in his own time and way. On the home run, when Douglas reached his
rooms, he told the driver to take Mickey to the end of the car line; the
boy shyly interposed to ask if he might go to the "Star of Hope Hospital,"
so Douglas changed the order.
Mickey's passport held good at the hospital. The Sunshine Nurse inspected
the cakes and approved them. She was so particular she even took a tiny
nibble of one and said: "Sugar, flour, egg and shortening--all right
Mickey, those can't hurt her. And how is she to-day?"
"Fine!" cried Mickey. "She is getting a lot stronger already. She can sit
up longer and help herself better, and she's got ribbons, the prettiest
you ever laid eyes on, that a lady gave me for her hair, and they make her
pink and nicer; and she's got a baby doll in long clean white dresses to
snuggle down and stay with her all day; and she's got a slate, and a book,
and she knows 'cow' and 'milk' and my name, and to-day she is learning
'bread.' To-morrow I am going to teach her 'baby,' and she can say her
prayer too nice for anything, once we got it fixed so she'd say it at
all."
"What did you teach her, Mickey?"
"'Now I lay me,' only Lily wouldn't say it the way She taught me. You see
Lily was all alone with her granny when she winked out and it scared her
most stiff, so when I got to that 'If I should die before I wake,' line,
she just went into fits, and remembering what I'd seen myself, I didn't
blame her; so I changed it for her 'til she liked it."
"Tell me about it, Mickey?" said the nurse.
"Well you see she has a window, so she can see the stars and the sun. She
knows them, so I just shifted the old sad, scary lines to:
"_Guard me through the starry night,
Wake me safe with sunshine bright!_"
"But Mickey, that's lovely!" cried the nurse. "Wait till I write it down!
I'll teach it to my little people. Half of them come here knowing that
prayer and when they are ill, they begin to think about it. Some of them
are old enough to worry over it. Why you're a poet, Mickey!"
"Sure!" conceded Mickey. "That's what I'm going to be when I get through
school. I'm going to write a poetry piece about Lily for the first sheet
of the _Herald_ that'll be so good they'll pay me to write one every day,
but all of them will be about her."
"Mickey, is there enough of such a little girl to furnish one every day?"
asked the nurse.
"Surest thing you know!" cried Mickey enthusiastically. "Why there are the
hundred gold rings on her head, one for each; and her eyes, tender and
teasy, and sad and glad, one for each; and the colour of them different a
dozen times a day, and her little white face, and her lips, and her smile,
and when she's good, and when she's bad; why Miss, there's enough of Lily
for a book big as Mr. Bruce's biggest law book."
"Well Mickey!" cried the girl laughing. "There's no question but you will
write the poetry, only I can't reconcile it with the kind of a hustler you
are. I thought poets were languid, dreamy, up-in-the-clouds kind of
people."
"So they are," explained Mickey. "_That_ comes later. First I got to
hustle to get Lily's back Carreled and us through school, and ready to
_write_ the poetry; then it will take so much dreaming to think out what
is nicest about her, and how to say it best, that it would make any fellow
languid--you can see how that would be!"
"Yes, I see!" conceded the nurse. "Mickey, by Carreling her back, do you
mean Dr. Carrel?"
"Sure!" cried Mickey. "You see I read a lot about him in the papers I
sell. He's the biggest man in the _world! He's bigger than emperors and
kings!_ They--why the biggest thing they can _do_ is to kill all their
strongest, bravest men. He's so much bigger than kings, that he can take
men they shoot to pieces and put them together again. Killing men ain't
much! Anybody can do killing! Look at him making folks live! _Gee, he's
big!_"
"And you think he can make Lily's back better?"
"Why I _know_ he can!" said Mickey earnestly. "That wouldn't be a patching
to what he _has_ done! Soon as you say she is strong enough, I'm going to
write to him and tell him all about her, and when I get the money saved,
he'll come and fix her. Sure he will!"
"If you could get to him and tell him yourself, I really believe he
would," marvelled the nurse. "But you see it's like this, Mickey: when men
are as great as he is, just thousands of people want everything of them,
and write letters by the hundreds, and if all of them were read there
would be time for nothing else, so a secretary opens the mail and decides
what is important, and that way the big people don't always know about the
ones they would answer if they were doing it. He's been here in this very
hospital; I've seen him operate once. Next time a perfectly wonderful case
comes in, that is in his peculiar line, no doubt he will be notified and
come again. Then if I could get word to you, and you could get Lily here,
possibly--just possibly he would listen to you and look at her--of course
I can't say surely he would--but I think he would!"
"Why of course he would!" triumphed Mickey. "Of course he would! He'd be
tickled to pieces! He'd just love to! Any man would! Why a white little
flowersy-girl who can't walk----!"
"If you could reach him, I really think he would," said the nurse
positively.
"Well just you gimme a hint that he's here, and see if I don't get to
him," said Mickey.
"Is there any place I'd be certain to find you quickly, if a chance should
come?" she asked. "One never can tell. He might not be here in years, but
he might be called, and come, to-morrow."
"Why yes!" cried Mickey. "Why of course! Why the telephone! Call me where
I work!"
"But I thought you were a 'newsy!'" said the nurse.
"Well I was," explained Mickey lifting his head, "but I've give up the
papers. I've graduated. I'm going to sell out tomorrow. I'm going to work
permanent for Mr. Douglas Bruce. He's the biggest lawyer in Multiopolis.
He's got an office in the Iriquois Building, and his call is 500-X. Write
that down too and put it where you can't lose it. He's just a grand man.
He asked about Lily to-day. He said any time he'd do things for her. Sure
he would! He'd stop saving the taxpayers of Multiopolis, and take his car,
and go like greased lightning for a little sick girl. He's the grandest
man and he's got a Joy Lady that puts in most of her time making folks
happy. Either of them would! Why it's too easy to talk about! You call me,
I take a car and bring her scooting! If I'd see Lily standing on her feet,
stepping right out like other folks, I'd be so happy I'd almost bust wide
open. Honest I would! If he _does_ come, you'd try _hard_ to get me a
chance, wouldn't you?"
"I'd try as hard for you as I would for myself Mickey; I couldn't promise
more," she said.
"Lily's as good as fixed," exulted Mickey. "Why there is that big easy car
standing down in the street waiting to take me home right now."
"Does Douglas Bruce send you home in his car?"
"Oh no, not regular! This is extra! Work is over for to-day so we went to
the golf links; then he lets his man take me while he bathes and dresses
to go to his Joy Lady. Gee, I got to hurry or I'll make the car late; but
I can talk with you all you will. I can send the car back and walk or hop
a 'tricity-wagon."
"Which is a street car?" queried the nurse.
"Sure!" said Mickey.
"Well go hop it!" she laughed. "I can't spare more time now, but I won't
forget, Mickey; and if he comes I'll keep him till you get here, if I have
to chain him."
"You go to it!" cried Mickey. "And I'll begin praying that he comes soon,
and I'll just pray and pray so long and so hard, the Lord will send him
quick to get rid of being asked so constant. No I won't either! Well
wouldn't that rattle your slats?"
"What, Mickey?" asked the nurse.
"Why don't you _see?_" cried Mickey.
"No, I don't see," admitted the girl.
"Well I do!" said Mickey. "What would be square about that? Why that would
be asking the Lord to make maybe some other little girl so sick, the
Carrel man would be sent for, so I'd get my chance for Lily. That ain't
business! I wouldn't have the cheek! What would the Lord _think_ of me? He
wouldn't come in a mile of _doing_ it. I wouldn't come in ten miles of
having the nerve to ask him. I do get up against it 'til my head swims.
And there is _winter_ coming, too!"
The nurse put her arm around Mickey again, and gently propelled him toward
the elevator.
"Mickey," she said softly, her lips nipping his fair hair, "God doesn't
give many of us your clear vision and your big heart. I'd have asked him
that, with never a thought of who would have to be ill to bring Dr. Carrel
here. But I'll tell you. You can pray _this_ with a clean conscience: you
can ask God if the doctor _does_ come, to put it into his heart to hear
you, and to examine Lily. That wouldn't be asking ill for anyone else so
that you might profit by it. And dear laddie, don't worry about _winter_.
This city is still taking care of its taxpayers. You do your best for Lily
all summer, and when winter comes, if you're not fixed for it, I will see
what your share is and you can have it in a stove that will burn warm a
whole day, and lots of coal, _plenty_ of it. I know I can arrange that."
"Gee, you're great!" he cried. "This is the biggest thing that ever
happened to me! I see now what I can ask Him on the square; so it's
_business_ and all right; and Mr. Bruce or Miss Leslie will loan me a car,
and if you see about the stove and the coal the city has for me"--in came
Mickey's royal flourish--"why dearest Nurse Lady, Lily is as good as
walking right now! Gee! In my place would you tell her?"
"I surely would," said the nurse. "It will do her good. It will give her
hope. Dr. Carrel isn't the only one who can perform miracles; if he
_doesn't_ come by the time Lily is strong enough to bear the strain of
being operated, we can try some other great man; and if she is shy, and
timid from having been alone so much, expecting it will make it easier for
her. By the way, wait until I bring some little gifts, I and three of my
friends have made for her in our spare time. I think your mother's night
dresses must be big and uncomfortable for her, even as you cut them off.
Try these. Give her a fresh one each day. It is going to be dreadfully hot
soon. When she has used two, bring them here and I'll have them washed for
you."
"Now nix on that!" said Mickey. "You're a shining angel bright to sew them
for her, I'm crazy over them, but I wash them. Mother showed me. That will
be _my_ share. I can do it fine. And they _will_ be better! She's so lost
in mother's, I have to shake them to find her!"
They laughed together, then Mickey sped to the sidewalk and ordered the
car back.
"I've been too long," he said. "Nurse Lady had some things to tell me
about a little sick girl and I was glad to miss my ride for them. Mr.
Bruce will be ready by now. You go where he told you."
"I got twenty-seven minutes yet," said the driver. "I can take you at
least almost there. Hop in."
"Mither o' Mike!" cried Mickey. "Is _that_ all there is to it? Gee, how
I'd like to have a try at it."
"Are you going to be in Mr. Bruce's office from now on?" asked the driver.
"If I can sell my paper line," answered Mickey.
"Got a good route?" inquired the man.
"Best of any boy in my district," said Mickey. "I _like_ to sell papers. I
got it down fine!"
"I guess you have," said the driver. "I know your voice, and everybody on
your street knows that cry. Your route ought to be worth a fair price. I
got a kid that wants a paper start. What would you ask to take him over
your round and tell the men you are turning your business over to him, and
teach him your cries?"
"Hum-m-m-m!" said Mickey. "My cry is whatever has the biggest headlines on
the front page, mixed in with a lot of joyous fooling, and I'd have to see
your boy 'fore I'd say if I could teach him. Is he a clean kid with a
joyous face, and his anatomy decorated with a fine large hump? That's the
only kind that gets my job. I won't have my nice men made sore all day
'cause they start it by seeing a kid with a boiled-owl face."
"You think a happy face sells most papers?"
"Know it!" said Mickey, "'cause I wear it on the job, and I get away with
the rest of them three times and coming. Same everywhere as with the
papers. A happy face would work with your job, if you'd loosen up a link
or two, and tackle it. It may crack your complexion, if you start too
violent, but taking it by easy runs and greasing the ways 'fore you cut
your cable, I believe you'd survive it!"
Mickey flushed and grinned in embarrassment when people half a block away
turned to look at his driver, and the boy's mouth opened as a traffic
policeman smiled in sympathy when he waved his club, signalling them to
cross. Mickey straightened up reassured.
"_Did you get that?_" he inquired.
"I got it!" said the driver. "But it won't ever happen again. McFinley has
been on that crossing for five years and that's his first smile on the
job."
"Then make it your business to see that it ain't his _last!_" advised
Mickey. "There's no use growing morgue lines on your mug; with all May
running wild just to please you and the man in the moon; loosen up, if you
have to tickle your liver with a torpedo to start you!"
"You brass monkey!" said the driver. "You climb down right here, before
I'm arrested for a plain drunk."
"Don't you think it," called Mickey. "If you like your job, man, cotton up
to it; chuckle it under the chin, and get real familiar. See? Try grin,
'stead of grouch just one day and watch if the whole world doesn't look
better before night."
"Thanks kid, I'll think it over!" promised the driver.
Mickey hurried home to Peaches. He hid the cake and the hospital box under
the things he bought for supper and went to her with empty hands. He could
see she was tired and hungry, so he gave her a drink of milk, and
proceeded to the sponge bath and oil rub. These rested and refreshed her
so that Mickey demanded closed eyes, while he slipped the dainty night-
robe over her head, and tied the pink ribbon on her curls. Then he piled
the pillows, leaned her against them and brought the mirror.
"Now open your peepers, Flowersy-girl, and tell me how Miss O'Halloran
strikes you!" he exulted.
Peaches took one long look. She opened her mouth. Then she turned to
Mickey and shut her mouth; shut it and clapped both hands over it; so that
he saw the very act of strangling a phrase he would have condemned.
"That's a nice lady!" he commented in joy. "Now let me tell you! You got
four of these gorgeous garments, each one made by a different nurse-lady,
while she was resting. Every day you get a clean one, and I wash the one
you wore last, careful and easy not to tear the lacy places. Ain't they
the gladdest rags you ever saw!"
Peaches gasped: "Mickey, I'll bust!"
"Go on and bust then!" conceded Mickey. "Bust if you must; but don't you
dare say no words that ain't for the ladiest of ladies, in that beautiful,
softy, white dress."
Peaches set her lips, stretching her arms widely. She sat straighter than
Mickey ever had seen her, lifting her head higher. Gradually a smile crept
over her face. She was seeing a very pinched, white little girl, with a
shower of yellow curls bound with a pink ribbon tied in a big bow; wearing
a dainty night dress with a fancy yoke run with pink ribbons tied under
her chin and at her elbows. She crooked an arm, primped her mouth, and
peered at the puffed sleeves, then hastily gulped down whatever she had
been tempted to say.
Again Mickey approved. Despite protests he removed the mirror, then put
the doll in her arms. "Now you line up," he said. "Now you look alike!
After you get your supper, comes the joy part for sure."
"More joyous than this?" Peaches surveyed herself.
"Yes, Miss! The joyousest thing of all the world that could happen to
you," he said.
"But Mickey-lovest!" she cried in protest. "You know--_you know_--what
_that_ would be!"
"Sure I know!" said Mickey.
"I don't believe it! It never could!" she cried.
"There you go!" said Mickey in exasperation. "You make me think of them
Texas bronchos kicking at everything on earth, in the Wild West shows
every spring. Honest you do!"
"Mickey, you forgot my po'try piece to-night!" she interposed hastily.
"What you want a poetry piece for with such a dress and ribbon as you
got?" he demanded.
"I like the po'try piece _better_ than the dress or the ribbon," she
asserted positively.
"You'll be saying better than the baby, next!"
"Yes, an' better than the baby!"
"You look out Miss," marvelled Mickey. "You got to tell true or you can't
be my family."
"Sure and true!" said Peaches emphatically.
"Well if I ever!" cried Mickey. "I didn't think you was _that_ silly!"
"'Tain't silly!" said Peaches. "The po'try pieces is _you!_ 'Tain't silly
to like _you_ better than a dress, and a ribbon, or a Precious Child. I
want my piece now!"
"Well I've been so busy to-day, I forgot your piece, said Mickey. "'Nough
things have happened to make me forget my head, if 'twasn't fast. I forgot
your piece. I thought you'd like the dress and the joyous thing better."
"Then you _didn't_ forget it!" cried Peaches. "You thought something else,
and you thought what ain't! So there! I _want_ my po'try piece!"
"Well do you want it worse than your supper?" demanded Mickey.
"Yes I do!" said Peaches.
"Well use me for a mop!" cried Mickey. "Then you'll have to wait 'til I
make one."
"Go on and make it!" ordered the child.
"Well how do you like this?"
"_Once a stubborn little kicker,
Kicked until she made me snicker.
If she had wings, she couldn't fly,
'Cause she'd be too stubborn to try._"
A belligerent look slowly spread over Peaches' face.
"_That's_ no po'try piece," she scoffed, "an' I don't like it at all, an'
I won't write it on my slate; not if I never learn to write anything.
Mickey-lovest, please make a _nice_ one to save for my book. It's going to
have three on ev'ry page, an' a nice piece o' sky like right up there for
backs, and mebby--mebby a cow on it!"
"Sure a cow on it," agreed Mickey. "I saw a lot to-day! I'll tell you
after supper. Gimme a little time to think. I can't do nice ones right
off."
"You did that one right off," said Peaches.
"Sure!" answered Mickey. "I was a little--a little--per_voked!_ And you
said that wasn't a _nice_ one."
"And so it wasn't!" asserted Peaches positively.
"If I have a nice one ready when I bring supper, will that do?" questioned
Mickey.
"Yes," said Peaches. "But I won't eat my supper 'til I have it."
"Now don't you get too bossy, Miss Chicken," warned Mickey. "There's a
surprise in this supper like you never had in all your life. I guess you'd
eat it, if you'd see it."
"I wouldn't 'til I had my po'try piece."
In consideration of the poetry piece Mickey desisted. The inference was
too flattering. Between narrowed lids he looked at Lily. "You fool sweet
little kid," he muttered. Then he prepared supper. When he set it on the
table he bent over and taking both hands he said gently:
"_Flowersy-girl of moonbeam white,
Golden head of sunshine bright,
Dancing eyes of sky's own blue,
No other flower in the world like you._"
"Get the slate!" cried Peaches. "Get the slate! Now _that's_ a po'try
piece. That's the best one yet. I'm going to put that right under the
cow!"
"Sure!" said Mickey. "I think that's the best yet myself. You see, you
make them come better every time, 'cause you get so much sweeter every
day."
"Then why did you make the bad one?" she pouted.
"Well every time you just yell 'I won't,' without ever giving me a chance
to tell you _what_ I'm going to do, or why," explained Mickey. "If only
you'd learn to wait a little, you'd do better. If I was to tell you that
Carrel man was at the door with a new back for you, if you turn over and
let him put it in, I s'pose you'd yell: 'I won't!'"
The first tinge of colour Mickey had seen, almost invisibly faint, crept
to the surface of Peaches' white cheek.
"Just you try it, Mickey-lovest!" she exclaimed.
"Finish your supper, and see what I try."
Peaches obeyed. She had stopped grabbing and cramming. She ate slowly,
masticating each morsel as the nurse told Mickey she should. To-night he
found her so dainty and charming, as she instinctively tried to be as nice
as her dress and supper demanded, that he forgot himself, until she
reminded him. Then he rallied and ate his share. He presented the cakes,
and while they enjoyed them he described every detail of the day he
thought would interest her, until she had finished. He told her of the
nurse and the dresses and when she wanted to see the others he said: "No
sir! You got to wait till you are bathed and dressed each evening, and
then you can see yourself, and that will be more fun than taking things
all at once. You needn't think I'm coming in here _every_ night with a
great big lift-the-roof surprise for you. Most nights there won't be
anything for you only me, and your supper."
"But Mickey, them's the nicest nights of all!" said Peaches. "I like
thinking about you better than nurse-ladies, or joy-ladies, or my back,
even; if it wasn't for having supper ready to _help_ you."
"There you go again!" exclaimed Mickey. "Cut that stuff out, kid! You'll
get me so broke up, I won't be fit for nothing but poetry, and that's
tough eating; there's a lot must come, 'fore I just make a business of it.
Now Miss, you brace up, and get this: the Carrel man has been in this very
burg. See! Our Nurse Lady at the 'Star of Hope' has watched him making
some one over. Every time anybody is brought there with a thing the matter
with them, that he knows best how to cure, the big head knifers slip it
over to him, so he comes and does it to get practice on the job. He _may_
not come for a long time; he _might_ come to-morrow. See?"
"Oh Mickey! Would he?" gasped Peaches.
"Why sure he would!" cried Mickey with his most elaborate flourish. "Sure
he would! That's what he lives for. He'd be tickled to pieces to make over
the back of a little girl that can't walk. Sure he would! What I ain't
sure of is that you wouldn't gig back and say, 'I won't!' if you had a
chance to be fixed."
Peaches spoke with deliberate conviction: "Mickey, I'm most _sure_ I've
_about_ quit that!"
"Well, it's time!" said Mickey. "What you got to do is to eat, and sleep,
and be bathed, and rubbed, and get so big and strong that when I come
chasing up the steps and say, 'He's here, Lily, clap your arms around my
neck and come to the china room and the glass table and be fixed,' you
just take a grip and never open your head. See! You can be a game little
kid, the gamest I ever saw, you will then, Lily, won't you?"
"Sure!" she promised. "I'll just grab you and I'll say, 'Go Mickey, go
h----!"
"Wope! Wope there lady!" interposed Mickey. "Look out! There's a subm'rine
coming. Sink it! Sink it!"
"Mickey what's a subm'rine?" asked Peaches.
"Why it's like this," explained Mickey. "There's places where there's
water, like I bring to wash you, only miles and miles of it, such a lot,
it's called an ocean----"
"Sure! 'Crost it where the kings is makin' people kill theirselves," cried
Peaches.
"Yes," agreed Mickey. "And on the water, sailing along like a lady, is a
big, beautiful ship. Then there's a nasty little boat that can creep under
the water. It slips up when she doesn't know it's coming, and blows a hole
in the fine ship and sinks her all spoiled. But if the nice ship sees the
subm'rine coming and sinks it, why then she stays all nice, and isn't
spoiled at all. See?"
"Subm'rines spoil things?" ventured Peaches.
"They were just _invented_ for that, and nothing else."
"Mickey, I'll just say, 'Hurry! Run fast!' Mickey, can you carry me that
far?" she asked anxiously.
"No, I can't carry you that far," admitted Mickey. "But Mr. Douglas Bruce,
that we work for after this, will let me take his driver and his nice,
easy car, and it will beat streetcars a mile, and we'll just go sailing
for the 'Star of Hope' and get your back made over, and then comes school
and everything girls like. See?"
"Mickey, what if he never comes?" wavered Peaches.
"Yes, but he _will!_" said Mickey positively.
"Mickey, what if he should come, an' wouldn't even _look_ at my back?" she
pursued.
"Why, he'd be _glad_ to!" cried Mickey. "Don't be silly. Give the man some
chance!"
CHAPTER IX
_James Jr. and Malcolm_
Nellie Minturn returned to her room too dazed to realize her suffering.
She had intended doing something; the fringed orchids reminded her. She
rang for water to put them in, while her maid with shaking fingers dressed
her, then ordered the car. The girl understood that some terrible thing
had happened and offered to go with the woman who moved so mechanically
she proved she scarcely knew what she was doing.
"No," said Mrs. Minturn. "No, the little soul has been out there a long
time alone, her mother had better go alone and see how it is."
She entered the car, gave her order and sank back against the seat. When
the car stopped, she descended and found the gates guarding the doors of
the onyx vault locked. She pushed her flowers between the bars, dropping
them before the doors, then wearily sank on the first step, leaning her
head against the gate, trying to think, but she could not. Near dawn her
driver spoke to her.
"It's almost morning," he said. "You've barely time to reach home before
the city will be stirring."
She paid no attention, so at last he touched her.
"You, Weston?" she asked.
"Yes, Madam," he said. "I'm afraid for you. I ventured to come closer than
you said. Excuse me."
"Thank you Weston," she answered.
"Let me drive you home now, Madam," he begged.
"Just where would you take me if you were taking me home, Weston?"
"Where we came from," he replied.
"Do you think that has ever been a home, Weston?"
"I have thought it the finest home in Multiopolis, Madam," said the driver
in surprise.
She laughed bitterly. "So have I, Weston. And to-day I have learned what
it really is. Help me, Weston! Take me back to the home of my making."
When he rang for her, she gave him an order: "Find Mr. John Haynes and
bring him here immediately."
"Bring him now, Madam?" he questioned.
"Immediately, I said," she repeated.
"I will try, Madam," said Weston.
"You will bring him at once if he is in Multiopolis," she said with
finality.
Weston knew that John Haynes was her lawyer; he had brought him from his
residence or office at her order many times; he brought him again. At once
John Haynes dismissed all the servants in the Minturn household, arranged
everything necessary, and saw Mrs. Minturn aboard a train in company with
a new maid of his selection; then he mailed a deed of gift of the Minturn
residence to the city of Multiopolis for an endowed Children's Hospital.
The morning papers briefly announced the departure and the gift. At his
breakfast table James Minturn read both items, then sat in deep thought.
"Not like her!" was his mental comment. "I can understand how that place
would become intolerable to her; but I never knew her to give a dollar to
the suffering. Now she makes a princely gift, not because she is generous,
but because the house has become unbearable; and as usual, with no thought
of any one save herself. If the city dares accept, how her millionaire
neighbours will rage at disease and sickness being brought into the finest
residence district! Probably the city will be compelled to sell it and
build somewhere else. But there is something fitting in the reparation of
turning a building that has been a place of torture to children, into one
of healing. It proves that she has a realizing sense."
He glanced around the bright, cheerful breakfast room, with its carefully
set, flower-decorated table, at his sister at its head, at a son on either
hand, at a pleasant-faced young tutor on one side, and his Little Brother
on the other; for so had James Minturn ordered his household.
Mrs. Winslow had left a home she loved to come at her brother's urgent
call for help to save his boys. The tutor had only a few hours of his
position, and thus far his salary seemed the attractive feature. James Jr.
and Malcolm were too dazed to be natural for a short time. They had been
picked up bodily, and carried kicking and screaming to this place, where
they had been dressed in plain durable clothing. Malcolm's bed stood
beside Little Brother's in a big sunny room; James' was near the tutor's
in a chamber the counterpart of the other, save for its bookcases lining
one wall.
There was a schoolroom not yet furnished with more than tables and chairs,
its floors and walls bare, its windows having shades only. When worn out
with the struggle the amazed boys had succumbed to sleep on little, hard,
white beds with plain covers; had awakened to a cold bath at the hands of
a man, and when they rebelled and called for Lucette and their accustomed
clothing, were forcibly dressed in linen and khaki.
In a few minutes together before they were called to breakfast, James had
confided to Malcolm that he thought if they rushed into William's back
with all their strength, on the top step, they could roll him downstairs
and bang him up good. Malcolm had doubts, but he was willing to try.
William was alert, because as many another "newsy" he had known these boys
in the park; so when the rush came, a movement too quick for untrained
eyes to follow swung him around a newel post, while both boys bumping,
screaming, rolled to the first landing and rebounded from a wall harder
than they. When no one hastened at their screams to pick them up, they
arose fighting each other. The tutor passed and James tried to kick him,
merely because he could. He was not there either, but he stopped for this
advice to the astonished boy: "If I were you I wouldn't do that. This is a
free country, and if you have a right to kick me, I have the same right to
kick you. I wouldn't like to do it. I'd rather allow mules and vicious
horses to do the kicking; still if you're bound to kick, I can; but my
foot is so much bigger than yours, and if I forgot and took you for a
football, you'd probably have to go to the hospital and lie in a plaster
cast a week or so. If I were you, I wouldn't! Let's go watch the birds
till breakfast is called, instead."
The invitation was not accepted. The tutor descended alone. As he stepped
to the veranda he met Mr. Minturn.
"Well?" that gentleman asked tersely.
Mr. Tower shook his head. He was studying law. He needed money to complete
his course. He needed many things he could acquire from James Minturn.
"It's a problem," he said guardedly.
"You draw your salary for its solution," Mr. Minturn said tartly. "Work on
the theory I outlined; if it fails after a fair test, we'll try another.
Those boys have got to be saved. They are handsome little chaps with fine
bodies and good ancestry. What happened just now?"
"They tried to rush William on the top step. William evaporated, so they
took the fall themselves."
"Exactly right," commented Mr. Minturn. "Get the idea and work on it.
Every rough, heartless thing they attempt, if at all possible, make it a
boomerang to strike them their own blow; but you reserve blows as a last
resort. There is the bell." Mr. Minturn called: "Boys! The breakfast bell
is ringing. Come!"
There was not a sound. Mr. Minturn nodded to the tutor. Together they
ascended the stairs. They found the boys hidden in a wardrobe. Mr. Minturn
opened the door, gravely looking at them.
"Boys," he said, "you're going to live with me after this, so you're to
come when I call you. You're going to eat the food that makes _men_ of
boys, where I can see what you get. You are going to do what I believe
best for you, until you are so educated that you are capable of thinking
for yourselves. Now what you must do, is to come downstairs and take your
places at the table. If you don't feel hungry, you needn't eat; but I
would advise you to make a good meal. I intend to send you to the country
in the car. You'll soon want food. With me you will not be allowed to
lunch at any hour, in cafes and restaurants. If you don't eat your
breakfast you will get nothing until noon. It is up to you. Come on!"
Neither boy moved. Mr. Minturn smiled at them.
"The sooner you quit this, the sooner all of us will be comfortable," he
said casually. "Observe my size. See Mr. Tower, a college athlete, who
will teach you ball, football, tennis, swimming in lakes and riding, all
the things that make boys manly men; better stop sulking in a closet and
show your manhood. With one finger either of us can lift you out and carry
you down by force; and we will, but why not be gentlemen and walk down as
we do?"
Both boys looked at him; then at each other, but remained where they were.
"Time is up!" said Mr. Minturn. "They've had their chance, Mr. Tower. If
they won't take it, they must suffer the consequences. Take Malcolm, I'll
bring James."
Instantly both boys began to fight. No one bribed them to stop, struck
them, or did anything at all according to precedent. They raged until they
exposed a vulnerable point, then each man laid hold, lifted and carefully
carried down a boy, placing him on a chair. James instantly slid to the
floor.
"Take James' chair away!" ordered Mr. Minturn. "He prefers to be served on
the floor."
Malcolm laughed.
"I don't either. I slipped," cried James.
"Then excuse yourself, resume your chair, and be mighty careful you don't
slip again."
James looked at his father sullenly, but at last muttered, "Excuse me,"
and took the chair. With bright inflamed eyes they stared at their almost
unknown father, who now had them in his power; at a woman they scarcely
knew, whom they were told to call Aunt Margaret; at a strange man who was
to take Lucette's place, and who had a grip that made hers seem feeble,
and who was to teach them the things of which they knew nothing, and
therefore hated; and at a boy nearer their own size and years, whom their
father called William. Both boys refused fruit and cereal, rudely
demanding cake and ice cream. Margaret Winslow looked at her brother in
despair. He placidly ate his breakfast, remarking that the cook was a
treasure. As he left the table Mr. Minturn laid the papers before his
sister, indicating the paragraphs he had read, then calling for his car he
took the tutor and the boys and left for his office. He ordered them to
return for him at half-past eleven, and with minute instructions as to how
they were to proceed, Mr. Tower and William drove to the country to begin
the breaking in of the Minturn boys.
They disdained ball, did not care for football, improvised golf clubs and
a baseball were not interesting, further than the use of the clubs on each
other, which was not allowed. They did not care what the flowers were,
they jerked them up by the roots when they saw it annoyed Mr. Tower, while
every bird in range flew from a badly aimed stone. They tried chasing a
flock of sheep, which chased beautifully for a short distance, then a ram
declined to run farther and butted the breath from Malcolm's small body
until it had to be shaken in again. They ran amuck and on finding they
were not pursued, gave up, stopping on the bank of a creek. There they
espied tiny shining fish swimming through the water and plunged in to try
to capture them. When Mr. Tower and William came up, both boys were busy
chasing fish. From a bank where they sat watching came a proposal from
William.
"I'll tell you fellows, I believe if we could build a dam we could catch
them. Gather stones and pile them up till I get my shoes off."
Instantly both boys obeyed. Mr. Tower and William stripped their feet, and
rolled their trousers. Into the creek they went setting stones, packing
with sod and muck, using sticks and leaves until in a short time they had
a dam before which the water began rising, then overflowing.
"Now we must wait until it clears," said William.
So they sat under a tree to watch until in the clean pool formed they
could see little fish gathering. Then the boys lay on the banks and tried
to catch them with their hands, and succeeded in getting a few. Mr. Tower
suggested they should make pools, one on each side of the creek, for their
fish, so they eagerly went to work. They pushed and slapped each other,
they fought over the same stone, but each constructed with his own hands a
stone and mud enclosed pool in which to pen his fish. They were really
interested in what they were doing, they really worked, also soon they
were really tired, they were really hungry. With imperative voice they
demanded food.
"You forget what your father told you at breakfast," said Mr. Tower. "He
knew you were coming to the country where you couldn't get food. William
and I are not hungry. We want to catch these little fish, and see who can
get the most. We think it's fun. We can't take the car back until your
father said to come."
"You take us back right now, and order meat, and cake, and salad and ice
cream, lots of it!" stormed James.
"I have to obey your father!" said Mr. Tower.
"I just hate fathers!" cried James.
"I'll wager you do!" conceded Mr. Tower.
James stared open mouthed.
"I can see how you feel," said Mr. Tower companionably. "When a fellow has
been coddled by nurses all his life, has no muscle, no appetite except for
the things he shouldn't have, and never has done anything but silly park-
playing, it must be a great change to be out with men, and doing as they
do."
Both boys were listening, so he went on: "But don't feel badly, and don't
waste breath hating. Save it for the grand fun we are going to have, and
next time good food is before you, eat like men. We don't start back for
an hour yet; see which can catch the most fish in that time."
"Where is Lucette?" demanded James.
"Gone back to her home across the ocean; you'll never see her again," said
Mr. Tower.
"Wish I could a-busted her head before she went!" said James regretfully.
"No doubt," laughed Mr. Tower. "But break your own and see how it feels
before you try it on any one else."
"I wish I could break yours!" cried James angrily.
"No doubt again," agreed the tutor, "but if you do, the man who takes my
place may not know how to make bows and arrows, or build dams, or anything
that's fun, while he may not be so patient as I am."
"Being hungry ain't fun," growled Malcolm.
"That's your own fault," Mr. Tower reminded him. "You wouldn't eat. That
was a good breakfast."
"Wasn't a thing Lucette gave us!" scoffed James.
"But you don't like Lucette very well," said Mr. Tower. "After you've been
a man six months, you won't eat cake for breakfast; or much of it at any
time."
"Lucette is never coming back?" marvelled Malcolm.
"Never!" said Mr. Tower conclusively.
"How soon are we going home?" demanded James.
"Never!" replied Mr. Tower. "You are going to live where you were last
night, after this."
"Where is Mamma?" cried Malcolm.
"Gone for the summer," explained Mr. Tower.
"I know. She always goes," said James. "But she took us before. I just
hate it. I like this better. We make no difference to her anyway. Let her
go!"
"Ain't we rich boys any more?" inquired Malcolm.
"I don't know," said Mr. Tower. "That is your father's business. I think
you have as much money as ever, but from now on, you are going to live
like men."
"We won't live like men!" cried both boys.
"Now look here," said Mr. Tower kindly, "you may take my word for it that
a big boy almost ten years old, and another nearly his age, who can barely
read, who can't throw straight, who can't swim, or row, or walk a mile
without puffing like an engine, who begins to sweat over lifting a few
stones, is a mighty poor specimen. You think you are wonders because
you've heard yourself called big, fine boys; you are soft fatties. I can
take you to the park and pick out any number of boys half your size and
age who can make either of you yell for mercy in three seconds. You aren't
boys at all; if you had to get on your feet and hike back to town, before
a mile you'd be lying beside the road bellowing worse than I've heard you
yet. You aren't as tough and game as half the girls of your age I know."
"You shut your mouth!" cried James in rage. "Mother'll fire you!"
"It is you who are fired, young man," said the tutor. "Your mother is far
away by this time. She left you boys with your father, who pays me to make
_men_ of you, so I'm going to do it. You are big enough to know that
you'll never be men, motoring around with nurses, like small babies;
eating cake and ice cream when your bones and muscles are in need of
stiffening and toughening. William, peel off your shirt, and show these
chaps how a man's muscle should be."
William obeyed, swelling his muscles.
"Now you try that," suggested Mr. Tower to James, "and see how much muscle
you can raise."
"I'm no gutter snipe," he sneered. "I'm a gentleman! I don't need muscle.
I'm never going to work."
"But you've just been working!" cried the tutor. "Carrying those stones
was work, and you'll remember it took both of you to lift one that
William, who is only a little older than you, James, moved with one hand.
You can't _play_ without working. You've got to pull to row a boat, or
hold a horse. You must step out lively to play tennis, or golf, or to
skate, while if you try to swim without work, you'll drown."
"I ain't going to do those things!" retorted James.
"No, you are going to spend your life riding in an automobile with a
nurse, feeding you cake!" scoffed the tutor.
William shouted and turned a cart wheel so flashingly quick that both boys
jumped, James' face coloured a slow red, so the tutor took hope.
"I see that makes you blush," he said. "No wonder! You should be as tough
as leather, and spinning along this creek bank like William. Instead you
are a big, bloated softy. You carry too much fat for your size, while you
are mushy as pudding! If I were you, I'd show my father how much of a man
I could be, instead of how much of a baby."
"Father isn't a gentleman!" announced Malcolm. "Lucette said so!"
"Hush!" cried Mr. Tower. "Don't you ever say that again! Your father is
one of the big men of this great city: one of the men who think, plan, and
make things happen, that result in health, safety and comfort for all of
us. One of the men who is going to rule, not only his own home, but this
city, and this whole state, one of these days. You don't _know_ your
father. You don't know what men say and think of him. You do know that
Lucette was fit for nothing but to wash and dress you like babies, big
boys who should have been _ashamed_ to let a woman wait on them. You do
know that she is on her way back where she came from, because she could
not do her work right. And you have the nerve to tell me what she said
about a fine man like your father. I'm amazed at you!"
"Gentlemen don't work!" persisted Malcolm. "Mother said so!"
"I'm sorry to contradict your mother, but she forgot something," said Mr.
Tower. "If the world has any gentlemen it surely should be those born for
generations of royal and titled blood, and reared from their cradles in
every tradition of their rank. Europe is full of them, and many are superb
men. I know a few. Now will you tell me where they are to-day? They are
down in trenches six feet under ground, shivering in mud and water, half
dead for sleep, food, and rest, trying to save the land of their birth,
the homes they own, to protect the women and children they love. They are
marching miles, being shot down in cavalry rushes, and blown up in boats
they are manning, in their fight to save their countries. _Gentlemen don't
work!_ You are too much of an idiot to talk with, if you don't know how
gentlemen of birth, rank and by nature are working this very day."
The descent on him was precipitate and tumultuous.
"The war!" shouted both boys in chorus. "Tell us about the war! Oh I just
love the war!" cried Malcolm. "When I'm a man I'm going to have a big
shiny sword, and ride, and fight, and make the enemy fly! You ought to
seen Gretchen and Lucette fight! They ain't either one got much hair
left."
The tutor could not help laughing; but he made room for a boy on either
side of him, and began on the war. It was a big subject, there were phases
of it that shocked and repulsed him; but it was his task to undo the wrong
work of ten years, he was forced to use the instrument that would
accomplish that end. With so much material he could tell of things
unavoidable, that men of strength and courage were doing, not forgetting
the boys and the _women_. William stretched at his feet and occasionally
made a suggestion, or asked a question, while James and Malcolm were
interested in something at last. When it was time to return, neither
wanted to go.
"Your father's orders were to come for him at half-past eleven," reminded
Mr. Tower. "I work for him, so I must obey!"
"Nobody pays any attention to father," cried James. "I order you to stay
here and tell of the fighting. Tell about the French boy who wouldn't show
where the troops were."
"Oh, I am to take orders from you, am I?" queried Mr. Tower. "All right!
Pay my salary and give me the money to buy our lunch!"
James stood thinking a second. "I have all the money I want," he said. "I
go to Mrs. Ranger for my money. Mother always makes her give me what I ask
for."
"You have forgotten that you have moved, and brought only yourselves,"
said Mr. Tower. "Your mother and the money are gone. Your father pays the
bills now, and if you'll watch sharp, you'll see that things have changed
since this time yesterday. Every one pays all the attention there is to
_father_ now. What we have, and do, and want, must come from him, and as
it's a big contract, and he's needed to help manage this city, we'd better
begin thinking about father, and taking care of him as much as we can. Now
we are to obey him. Come on William. It's lunch time, and I'm hungry."
The boys climbed into the car without a word, and before it had gone a
mile Malcolm slipped against the tutor and shortly thereafter James slid
to the floor, tired to insensibility and sound asleep. So Mr. Minturn
found them when he came from his office. He looked them over carefully,
wet, mud-stained, grimy, bruised and sleeping in exhaustion.
"Poor little soldiers," he said. "Your battle has been a hard one I see. I
hope to God you gained a victory."
He entered the car, picked up James and taking him in his arms laid the
tired head on his breast, leaning his face against the boy's hair. When
the car stopped at the new house, the tutor waited for instructions.
"Wake them up, make them wash themselves, and come to lunch," said Mr.
Minturn. "Afterward, if they are sleepy, let them nap. They must establish
regular habits at the beginning. It's the only way."
Dashes of cold water helped, so William and the tutor telling each other
how hungry they were, brought two boys ready to eat anything, to the
table. Cake and cream were not mentioned. Bread and milk, cold meat,
salad, and a plain pudding were delicious. Between bites James studied his
father, then suddenly burst forth: "Are you a gentleman?"
"I try to be," answered Mr. Minturn.
"Are you running this city?" put in Malcolm.
"I am doing what I can to help," said his father.
"Make Johnston take me home to get my money."
"You have no home but this," said Mr. Minturn. "Your old home now belongs
to the city of Multiopolis. It is to be torn up and made over into a place
where sick children can be cured. If you are ever too ill for us to
manage, we'll take you there to be doctored."
"Will mother and Lucette be there?" asked James.
Malcolm nudged his brother.
"Can't you remember?" he said. "Lucette has gone across the ocean, and she
is never coming back, goody! goody! And you know about how much mother
cares when we are sick. She's _coming_ the other _way_, when anybody is
_sick_. She just hates sick people. Let _them_ go, and get your _money!_"
Thus reminded, James began again, "I want to get my money."
"Your money came from your mother, so it went with your home, your
clothes, and your playthings," explained Mr. Minturn. "You have none until
you _earn_ some. I can give you a home, education, and a fine position
when you are old enough to hold it; but I _can't give you money. No one
ever gave me any. I always had to work for mine. From now on you are going
to live with me, so if you have money you'll have to go to work and earn
it_."
Both boys looked aghast at him. "Ain't we rich any more?"
"No," said Mr. Minturn. "Merely comfortable!"
James leaned back in his chair, twisting his body in its smooth linen
covering. He looked intently at the room, table and people surrounding it.
He glanced from the window at the wide green lawn, the big trees, and for
an instant seemed to be listening to the birds singing there. He laid down
his fork, turning to his brother. Then he exploded the bomb that shattered
the family.
"Oh damn being rich!" he cried. "I like being _comfortable_ a _lot_
better! Malcolm, being rich has put us about ten miles behind where we
ought to be. We're baby-girl softies! We wouldn't a-faced the guns and
_not_ told where the soldiers were, _we'd_ a-bellered for cake. Brace up!
Let's get in the game! Father, have we got to go on the street and hunt
work, or can you give us a job?"
James Minturn tried to speak, then pushing back his chair left the table
precipitately. James Jr. looked after him doubtfully. He turned to Aunt
Margaret.
"Please excuse me," he said. "I guess he's choked. I'd better go pound him
on the back like Lucette does us."
Malcolm looked at Aunt Margaret. "Mother won't let us work," he announced.
"It's like this Malcolm," said Aunt Margaret gently. "Mother had charge of
you for ten years. The women she employed didn't train you as boys should
be, so mother has turned you over to father. For the next ten years you
will try _another_ plan; after that, you will be big enough to decide how
you want to live; but now I think you will just love father's way, if you
will behave yourself long enough to find out what fun it is."
"Mother won't like it," said Malcolm positively.
"I think she does dear, or she wouldn't have gone and left you to try it,"
said Aunt Margaret. "She knew what your father would think you should do;
if she hadn't thought he was _right_ she would have taken you with her, as
before."
"I just hate being taken on trains and boats with her. So does James! We
like the dam, the fish, and we're going to have bows and arrows, to shoot
at mark.
"And we are going to swim and row," added William.
"And we are going to be soldiers, and hurl back the enemy," boasted
Malcolm, "ain't we Mr. Tower?"
"Indian scouts are more fun," suggested the tutor.
"And there is the money we must earn, if we've _got_ to," said Malcolm. "I
guess father is telling James how. I'll go ask him too. Excuse me, Aunt
Margaret!"
"Of all the surprises I ever did have, this is the biggest one!" said Aunt
Margaret. "I was afraid I never could like them. I thought this morning it
would take years."
"There is nothing like the receptivity and plasticity of children," said
the tutor.
Later James Minturn appeared on his veranda with a small boy clinging to
each hand. The trio came forth with red eyes, but firmly allied.
"Call the car, if you please, William," said Senior. "I am going to help
build that dam higher, and see how many fish I can catch for my pool."
Malcolm walked beside him, rubbing his head caressingly across an arm. "We
don't have to go on the streets and hunt," he announced. "Father is going
to find us work. While the war is so bad, we'll drink milk, and send what
we earn to boys who have no father. The war won't take our father, will
it?"
"To-night we will pray God not to let that happen," said Aunt Margaret.
"Is there room in the car for me too, James? I haven't seen one of those
little brook fish in years!"
James Jr. went to her and leaned against her chair. "I got three in my
pool. You may see mine! I'll give you one."
"I'd love to see them," said Aunt Margaret. "I'll go bring my hat. But I
think you shouldn't give the fish away, James. They belong to God. He made
their home in the water. If you take them out, you will kill them, and He
won't like that. Let's just look at them, and leave them in the water."
"Malcolm, the fish 'belong to God,'" said James, turning to his brother.
"We may play with them, but we mustn't take them out of the water and hurt
them."
"Well, who's going to take them out of the water?" cried Malcolm. "I'm
just going to scoot one over into father's pool to start him. Will you
give him one too?" "Yes," said James Jr.
"The next money I earn, I shall send to the war; but the first time I rake
the lawn, and clean the rugs, I'll give what I earn to father, so he will
have more time to play with us. Father is the biggest man in this city!"
"It may take a few days to get a new regime started," said father, "I've
lived only for work so long; but as soon as it's possible, my day will be
so arranged that some part of it shall be yours, boys, to show me what you
are doing. I think one day can be given wholly to going to the country."
With an ecstatic whoop they rushed James Minturn, whose wide aching arms
opened to them.
CHAPTER X
_The Wheel of Life_
"What are your plans for this summer, Leslie?" asked Mr. Winton over his
paper at breakfast.
"The real question is, what are yours?"
"I have none," said Mr. Winton. "I can't see my way to making any for
myself. Between us, strictly, Swain has been hard hit. He gave me my
chance in life. It isn't in my skin to pack up and leave for the sea-shore
or the mountains on the results of what he helped me to, and allow him to
put up his fight _alone_. If you understood, you'd be ashamed of me if I
did, Leslie."
"But I do understand, Daddy!" cried the girl. "What makes you think I
don't? All my life you've been telling me how you love Mr. Swain and what
a splendid big thing he did for you when you were young. Is the war making
business awfully hard for you men?"
"Close my girl," said Mr. Winton. "Bed rock close!"
"That is what cramps Mr. Swain?" she continued.
"It is what cramps all of us," said Mr. Winton. "It hit him with peculiar
force because he had made bad investments. He was running light anyway in
an effort to recoup. All of us are on a tension brought about by the
result of political changes, to which we were struggling to adjust
ourselves, when the war began working greater hardships and entailing
millions of loss and expenses."
"I see, and that's why I said the real question was, 'what are your
plans?'" explained Leslie, "because when I find out, if perchance they
should involve staying on the job this summer, why I wanted to tell you
that I'm on the job too. I've thought out the grandest scheme."
"Yes, Leslie? Tell me!" said Mr. Winton.
"It's like this," said Leslie. "Everybody is economizing, shamelessly--and
that's a bully word, Daddy, for in most instances it is shameless. Open
faced 'Lord save me and my wife, and my son John and his wife.' In our
women's clubs and lectures, magazines and sermons, we've had a steady dose
all winter of hard times, and economy, and I've tried to make my friends
see that their efforts at economy are responsible for the very hardest
crux of the hard times."
"You mean, Leslie--?" suggested Mr. Winton eagerly.
"I mean all of us quit using eggs, dealers become frightened, eggs soar
higher. Economize on meat, packers buy less, meat goes up. All of us
discharge our help, army of unemployed swells by millions. It works two
ways and every friend I've got is economizing for herself, and with every
stroke for herself she is weakening her nation's financial position and
putting a bigger burden on the man she is trying to help."
"Well Leslie--" cried her father.
"The time has come for women to find out what it is all about, then put
their shoulders to the wheel of life and push. But before we gain enough
force to start with any momentum, women must get together and decide what
they want, what they are pushing for."
"Have you decided what you are pushing for?"
"Unalterably!" cried the girl.
"And what is it?" asked her father.
"My happiness! My joy in life!" she exclaimed.
"And exactly in what do you feel your happiness consists, Leslie?" he
asked.
"You and Douglas! My home and my men and what they imply!" she answered
instantly. "As I figure it, it's _homes_ that count, Daddy. If the nation
prospers, the birth rate of Americans has got to keep up, or soon the
immigrants will be in control everywhere, as they are in places, right
now. Births imply homes. Homes suggest men to support them, women to
control them. If the present unrest resolves itself into a personal
question, so far as the women are concerned at least, if you are going to
get to primal things, whether she realizes it or no, what each woman
really _wants_ she learns, as Nellie Minturn learned when she took her
naked soul into the swamp and showed it to her God--what each woman
_wants_ is her man, her cave, and her baby. If the world is to prosper,
_that_ is woman's work, why don't you men who are doing big things
_realize_ it, and do yourselves what women are going to be forced from
home to _do_, mighty soon now, if you don't!"
"Well Leslie!" cried Mr. Winton.
"You said that before Daddy!" exclaimed the girl. "Yet what you truly want
of a woman is a home and children. Children imply to all men what I am to
you. If some men have not reared their children so that they receive from
them what you get from me, it is time for the men to _realize_ this, and
change their methods of _rearing_ their daughters and sons. A home should
mean to every man what your home does to you. If all men do not get from
their homes what you do, in most cases it is _their own fault_. Of course
I know there are women so abominably obsessed with self, they refuse to
become mothers, and prefer a cafe, with tangoing between courses, to a
home; such women should have first the ducking stool, and if that isn't
efficacious, extermination; they are a disgrace to our civilization and
the weakest spot we have. They are at the bottom of the present boiling
discontent of women who really want to be home loving, home keeping. They
are directly responsible for the fathers, sons, brothers, and lovers with
two standards of morals. A man reared in the right kind of a home, by a
real mother, who goes into other homes of the same kind, ruled by similar
mothers, when he leaves his, and marries the right girl and establishes
for himself a real home, is not going to go _wrong_. It is the sons,
lovers, and husbands of the women who refuse home and children, and carry
their men into a perpetual round of what they deem pleasure in their
youth, who find life desolate when age begins to come, and who instantly
rebel strongest against the very conditions they have made. I've been
listening to you all my life, Daddy, and remembering mother, reading,
thinking, and watching for what really pays, and believe me, _I've found
out_. I gave Nellie Minturn the best in my heart the other day, but you
should see what I got back. Horrors, Daddy! Just plain horrors! I said to
Douglas that night when I read him the letter I afterward showed you, that
if, as she suggested, I was 'ever faintly tempted to neglect home life for
society,' in her I would have all the 'horrible example' I'd ever need,
and rest assured I shall."
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Mr. Winton.
"Exactly!" cried Leslie. "And the poorest thing about it is that _she_ is
not to _blame_ in the least. You and my mother could have made the same
kind of a woman of me. If you had fed me cake instead of bread; if you had
given me candy instead of fruit; if you had taken me to the show instead
of entertaining me at home; if you had sent me to summer resorts instead
of summering with me in the country, you'd have had another Nellie on your
hands. The world is full of Nellies, but where one woman flees too strict
and monotonous a home, to make a Nellie out of herself, ten are taken out
and deliberately moulded, drilled and fashioned into Nellies by their own
parents. I have lain awake at nights figuring this, Daddy; some woman is
urging me every day to join different movements, and I've been forced to
study this out. I know the cause of the present unrest among women."
"And it is--?" suggested Mr. Winton.
"It is the rebound from the pioneer lives of our grandmothers! They and
their mothers were at one extreme; we are at the widest sweep of the
other. They were forced to enter the forest and in most cases defend
themselves from savages and animals; to work without tools, to live with
few comforts. In their determination to save their children from
hardships, they lost sense, ballast and reason. They have saved them to
such an extent they have _lost_ them. By the very method of their rearing,
they have robbed their children of love for, and interest in, home life,
and with their own hands sent them to cafes and dance halls, when they
should be at their homes training their children for the fashioning of
future homes. I tell you, Daddy----"
"Leslie, tell me this," interposed Mr. Winton. "Did you get any small part
of what you have been saying to me, from me? Do you feel what I have tried
to teach you, and the manner in which I have tried to rear you, have put
your love for me into your heart and such ideas as you are propounding
into your head?"
"Of course, Daddy!" cried the girl. "Who else? Mother was dear and
wonderful, but I scarcely remember her. What you put into the growth of
me, that is what is bound to come out, when I begin to live
independently."
"This is the best moment of my life!" said Mr. Winton. "From your birth
you have been the better part of me, to me; and with all my heart I have
_tried_ to fashion you into such a woman for a future home, as your mother
began, and you have completed for me. Other things have failed me; I count
you my success, Leslie!"
"Oh Daddy!" cried the happy girl.
"Now go back to our start," said Mr. Winton. "You have plans for the
summer, of course! I realized that at the beginning. Are you ready to tell
me?"
"I am ready to ask you," she said.
"Thank you," said Mr. Winton. "I appreciate the difference. Surely a man
does enjoy counting for something with his women."
"Spoiled shamelessly, dearest, that's what you are," said Leslie. "A
spoiled, pampered father! But to conclude. Mr. Swain helped you. Pay back,
Daddy, no matter what the cost; pay _back_. You help _him_, I'll help
_you!_ My idea was this: for weeks I've foreseen that you wouldn't like to
leave business this summer. Douglas is delving into that investigation Mr.
Minturn started him on and he couldn't be dragged away. He's perfectly
possessed. Of course where my men are, like Ruth, 'there will be I also,'
so for days I've been working on a plan, and now it's all finished and
waiting your veto or approval."
"Thrilling, Leslie! Tell quickly. I'm all agog!"
"It's this: let's not go away and spend big sums on travel, dress, and
close the house, and throw our people out of work. Do you realize, Daddy,
how long you've had the same housekeeper, cook, maid and driver? Do you
know how badly I'd feel to let them go, and risk getting them back in the
fall? My scheme is to rent, for practically nothing, a log cabin I know, a
little over an hour's run from here--a log cabin with four rooms and a
lean-to and a log stable, beside a lake where there is grand fishing and
swimming."
"But Leslie----" protested Mr. Winton.
"Now listen!" cried the girl. "The rent is nominal. We get the house,
stable, orchard, garden, a few acres and a rented cow. The cabin has two
tiny rooms above, one for you, the other for Douglas. Below, it has a room
for me, a dining-room and a kitchen. The big log barn close beside has
space in the hay-mow for the women, and in one side below for our driver,
the other for the cars. Over the cabin is a grapevine. Around it there are
fruit trees. There is a large, rich garden. If I had your permission I
could begin putting in vegetables tomorrow that would make our summer
supply. Rogers----"
"You are not going to tell me Rogers would touch a garden?" queried Mr.
Winton.
"I am going to tell you that Rogers has been with me in every step of my
investigations," replied Leslie. "Yesterday I called in my household and
gave them a lecture on the present crisis; I found them a remarkably well-
informed audience. They had a very distinct idea that if I economized by
dismissing them for the summer, and leaving the house with a caretaker,
what it would mean to _them_. Then I took my helpers into the car and
drove out the Atwater road--you know it well Daddy, the road that runs
smooth over miles of country and then instead of jumping into a lake as it
seems to be going to, it swings into corduroy through a marsh, runs up on
a little bridge spanning the channel between two lakes, lifts to Atwater
lake shore, than which none is more lovely--you remember the white sand
floor and the clean water for swimming--climbs another hill, and opposite
beautiful wood, there stands the log cabin I told you of, there I took
them and explained. They could clean up in a day; Rogers could plant the
garden and take enough on one truck load, for a beginning. We may have
wood for the fireplace by gathering it from the forest floor. Rogers
again!"
"Are you quite _sure_ about Rogers?"
"Suppose you ride with him going down and ask him yourself," suggested
Leslie. "Rogers is anxious to hold his place. You see it's like this: all
of them get regular wages, have a chance at the swimming, rowing,
gardening and the country. The saving comes in on living expenses. Out
there we have the cow, flour, fish, and poultry from the neighbours, fresh
eggs, butter and the garden--I can cut expenses to one-fourth; lights
altogether. Moonshine and candles will serve; cooking fuel, gasoline.
Daddy will you go to-night and see?"
"No, I won't go to-night and see, I'll go swim and fish," said Mr. Winton.
"Great Heavens, Leslie, do you really mean to live all _summer_ beside a
lake, where a man can expand, absorb and exercise? I must get out my
fishing tackle. I wonder what Douglas has! I've tried that lake when bass
were slashing around wild thorn and crab trees shedding petals and bugs.
It is man's sport there! I like black bass fishing. I remember that water.
Fine for swimming! Not the exhilaration of salt, perhaps, but grand,
clean, old northern Indiana water, cooled by springs. I love it! Lord,
Leslie! Why don't we _own_ that place? Why haven't we homed there, and
been comfortable for years?"
"I shall go ahead then?" queried Leslie.
"You shall go a-hurry, Miss, hurry!" cried Mr. Winton. "I'll give you just
two days. One to clean, the other to move; to-morrow night send for me. I
want a swim; and cornbread, milk, and three rashers of bacon for my dinner
and nothing else; and can't the maids have my room and let me have a
blanket on the hay?"
"But father, the garden!" cautioned Leslie.
"Oh drat the garden!" cried Mr. Winton.
"But if you go dratting things, I can't economize," the girl reminded him.
"Rogers and I have that garden down on paper, and it's _late_ now."
"Leslie, don't the golf links lie half a mile from there?"
"Closer Daddy," said the girl, "right around the corner."
"I don't see why you didn't think of it before," he said. "Have you told
Douglas?"
"Not a word!" exclaimed Leslie. "I'm going to invite him out when
everything is in fine order."
"Don't make things fine," said Mr. Winton. "Let's have them rough!"
"They will be rough enough to suit you, Daddy," laughed Leslie, "but a few
things have got to be done."
"Then hurry, but don't forget the snake question."
"People are and have been living there for generations; common care is all
that is required," said Leslie. "I'll be careful, but if you tell Bruce
until I am ready, I'll never forgive you."
Mr. Winton arose. "'Come to me arms,'" he laughed, spreading them wide. "I
wonder if Douglas Bruce knows what a treasure he is going to possess!"
"Certainly not!" said Leslie emphatically. "I wouldn't have him know for
the world! I am going to be his progressive housekeeping party, to which
he is invited every day, after we are married, and each day he has got a
new surprise coming, that I hope he will like. The woman who endures and
wears well in matrimony is the one who 'keeps something to herself.' It's
my opinion that modern marriage would be more satisfactory if the engaged
parties would not come so nearly being married, for so long before they
are. There is so little left for afterward, in most cases, that it soon
grows monotonous."
"Leslie, where did you get all of this?" he asked.
"I told you. From you, mostly," explained the girl, "and from watching my
friends. Go on Daddy! And send Rogers back soon! I want to begin buying
radish seed and onion sets."
So Leslie telephoned Douglas Bruce that she would be very busy with
housekeeping affairs the coming two days. She made a list of what would be
required for that day, left the maids to collect it, and went to buy seeds
and a few tools; then returning she divided her forces and leaving part to
pack the bedding, old dishes and things absolutely required for living,
she took the loaded car and drove to Atwater Lake.
The owner of the land, a cultured, refined gentleman, who spoke the same
brand of English used by the Wintons, and evinced a knowledge of the same
books, was genuinely interested in Leslie and her plans. It was a land
owner's busiest season, but he spared a man an hour with a plow to turn up
the garden, and came down himself and with practiced hand swung the
scythe, and made sure about the snakes. Soon the maids had the cabin walls
swept, the floors scrubbed, the windows washed, and that was all that
could be done. The seeds were earth enfolded in warm black beds, with
flower seeds tucked in for borders. The cut grass was raked back, and
spread to dry for the rented cow.
When nothing further was to be accomplished there, they returned to
Multiopolis to hasten preparations for the coming day. It was all so good
Leslie stopped at her father's office and poured a flood of cloverbloom,
bird notes and water shimmer into his willing ears.
She seldom went to Douglas Bruce's offices, but she ran up a few moments
to try in person to ease what she felt would be disappointment in not
spending the evening with her. The day would be full far into the night
with affairs at home, he would notice the closing of the house, and she
could not risk him spoiling her plans by finding out what they were,
before she was ready. She found him surrounded with huge ledgers, delving
and already fretting for Mickey. She stood laughing in his doorway, half
piqued to find him so absorbed in his work, and so full of the boy he was
missing, that he seemed to take her news that she was too busy to see him
that night with quite too bearable calmness; but his earnestness about
coming the following night worked his pardon, so Leslie left laughing to
herself over the surprise in store for him.
Bruce bent over his work, praying for Mickey. Everything went wrong
without him. He was enough irritated by the boy who was not Mickey, that
when the boy who was Mickey came to his door, he was delighted to see him.
He wanted to say: "Hello, little friend. Come get in the game, quickly!"
but two considerations withheld him: Mickey's manners were a trifle too
casual; at times they irritated Douglas, and if he took the boy into his
life as he hoped to, he would come into constant contact with Leslie and
her friends, who were cultured people of homing instincts. Mickey's
manners must be polished, and the way to do it was not to drop to his
level, but to improve Mickey. And again, the day before, he had told
Mickey to sit down and wait until an order was given him. To invite him to
"get in the game" now, was good alliteration; it pleased the formal Scotch
ear as did many another United States phrase of the street, so musical,
concise and packed with meaning as to become almost classic; but in his
heart he meant as Mickey had suspected, "to do him good"; so he must lay
his foundations with care. What he said was a cordial and cheerful, "Good
morning!"
"Noon," corrected Mickey. "Right ye are! Good it is! What's my job? 'Scuse
me! I won't ask that again!"
"Plenty," Douglas admitted, "but first, any luck with the paper route?"
"All over but killing the boy I sold it to, if he doesn't do right. I
ain't perfectly crazy about him. He's a papa's boy and pretty soft; but
maybe he'll learn. It was a fine chance for me, so I soaked it."
"To whom did you sell, Mickey?" asked Douglas.
"To your driver, for his boy," answered Mickey. "We talked it over last
night. Say, was your driver 'the same continued,' or did you detect
glimmerings of beefsteak and blood in him this morning?"
"Why?" asked Douglas curiously.
"Oh he's such a stiff," explained Mickey. "He looks about as lively as a
salted herring."
"And did you make an effort to enliven him, Mickey?"
"Sure!" cried Mickey. "The operation was highly successful! The patient
made a fine recovery. Right on the job, right on the street, right at the
thickest traffic corner, right at 'dead man's crossing,' he let out a
whoop that split the features of a copper who hadn't smiled in years. It
was a double play and it worked fine. What I want to know is whether it
was fleeting or holds over."
"It must be 'over,' Mickey," said Douglas. "Since you mention it, he
opened the door with the information that it was a fine morning, while I
recall that there was colour on his face, and light in his usually dull
eyes."
"Good!" cried Mickey. "Then there's some hope that his kid may go and do
likewise."
"The boy who takes your route has to smile, Mickey?"
"Well you see most of my morning customers are regulars, so they are used
to it," said Mickey. "The minute one goes into his paper, he's lost 'til
knocking off time; but if he starts on a real-wide-a-wake-soulful smile,
he's a chance of reproducing it, before the day is over, leastwise he has
_more_ chance than if he never smiles."
"So it is a part of the contract that the boy smiles at his work?"
questioned Douglas.
"_It is so!_" exclaimed Mickey. "I asked Mr. Chaffner at the _Herald_
office what was a fair price for my route. You see I've sold the _Herald_
from the word go, and we're pretty thick. So he told me what he thought.
It lifted my lid, but when I communicated it to Henry, casual like, he
never batted an eye, so I am going to try his boy 'til I'm satisfied. If
he can swing the job it's a go."
"Your customers should give you a vote of thanks!"
"And so they will!" cried Mickey. "You see the men who buy of me are the
top crust of Multiopolis, the big fine men who can smile, and open their
heads and say a pleasant word, and they like to. It does them good! I live
on it! I always get my papers close home as I can so I have time coming
down on the cars to take a peep myself, and nearly always there are at
least three things on the first page that hit you in the eye. Once long
ago I was in the _Herald_ office with a note to Chaffner the big chief,
and I gave him a little word jostle as I passed it over. He looked at me
and laughed good natured like, so I handed him this: 'Are you the big
stiff that bosses the make-up?' He says, 'Mostly! I can control it if I
want to.' 'All right for you,' I said. 'I live by selling your papers, but
I could sell a heap more if I had a better chance.' 'Chance in what way?'
said he. 'Building your first page,' said I. He said, 'Sure. What is it
that you want?' 'I'll show you,' said I. 'I'll give you the call I used
this morning.' Then I cut loose and just like on the street I cried it,
and he yelled some himself. 'What more do you want?' he asked me. 'A lot,'
I said. 'You see I only got a little time on the cars before my men begin
to get on, and my time is precious. I can't read second, third, and forty-
eleventh pages hunting up eye-openers. I must get them _first_ page,
'cause I'm short time, and got my pack to hang on to. Now makin'-up, if
you'd a-put that "Germans driven from the last foot of Belgian soil,"
first, it would a-been better, 'cause that's what every living soul wants.
Then the biggest thing about _ourselves_. Place it prominent in big black
letters, where I get it quick and easy, and then put me in a scream. Get
me a laugh in my call, and I'll sell you out all by myself. Folks are
spending millions per annum for the glad scream at night, they'll pay just
the same morning, give them a chance. I live on a laugh,' said I, to
Chaffner. He looked me over and he said: 'When you get too big for the
papers, you come to me and I'll make a top-notch reporter out of you.'
'Thanks Boss,' said I, 'you couldn't graft that job on to me, with
asphaltum and a buzz saw. I'm going to be on your front page 'fore you
know it, but it's going to be a poetry piece that will raise your hair; I
ain't going to frost my cake, poking into folks' private business, telling
shameful things on them that half kills them. Lots of times I see them
getting their dose on the cars, and they just shiver, and go white, and
shake. Nix on the printing about shame, and sin, and trouble in the papers
for me!' I said, and he just laughed and looked at me closer and he said,
'All right! Bring your poetry yourself, and if they don't let you in, give
them this,' and he wrote a line I got at home yet."
"Is that all about Chaffner?" asked Douglas.
"Oh no!" said Mickey. "He said, 'Well here is a batch of items being
written up for first page to-morrow. According to you, I should give
"Belgian citizens flocking back to search for devastated homes," the first
place?' 'That's got the first place in the heart of every man in God's
world. Giving it first place is putting it where it belongs.' 'Here's the
rest of it,' said he, 'what do you want next?' 'At the same glance I
always take, _this_,' said I, pointing to where it said, 'Movement on foot
to eliminate graft from city offices.' 'You think that comes next?' said
he. 'Sure!' said I. 'Hits the pocketbook! Sure! Heart first! Money next!'
'Are you so sure it isn't exactly the reverse?' asked he. 'Know it!' said
I. 'Watch the crowds any day, and every clip you'll see that loving a
man's country, and his home, and his kids, and getting fair play, comes
_before_ money.' 'Yes, I guess it does!' he said thoughtful like, 'least
it _should_. We'll make it the policy of this paper to put it that way
anyhow. What next?' 'Now your laugh,' said I. 'And while you are at it,
make it a scream!' 'All right,' he said, 'I haven't anything funny in yet,
but I'll get it. Now show me where you want these spaced.' So I showed
him, and every single time you look, you'll see Mr. _Herald_ is made up
that way, and you ought to hear me trolling out that Belgian line, soft
and easy, snapping in the graft quicklike, and then yelling out the
scream. You bet it catches them! If I can't get that kid on to his job,
'spect I'll have to take it back myself; least if he can't get on, he's
doomed to get off. I gave him a three days' try, and if he doesn't catch
by that time, he never will."
"But how are you going to know?" asked Douglas.
"I'm going down early and follow him and drill him like a Dutch recruit,
and he'll wake up my men, and interest them and fetch the laugh or he'll
stop!"
"You think you got a fair price?" asked Douglas.
"Know it! All it's worth, and it looks like a margin to me," said Mickey.
"That's all right then, and thank you for telling me about the papers,"
said Douglas. "I enjoyed it immensely. I see you are a keen student of
human nature."
"'Bout all the studying I get a chance at," said Mickey.
"You'll have opportunity at other things now," said Douglas. "Since you
mention it, I see your point about the papers, and if that works on
business men going to business, it should work on a _jury_. I think I've
had it in mind, that I was to be a compendium of information and impress
on a judge or jury what I know, and why what I say is _right_. You give me
the idea that a better way would be to impress on them what _they_ know.
Put it like this: first soften their hearts, next touch their pockets,
then make them laugh; is that the idea?"
"Duck again! You're doing fine! I ain't made my living selling men papers
for this long not to know the big boys _some_, and more. Each man is
different, but you can cod him, or bluff him, or scare him, or let down
the floodgates; some way you can put it over if you take each one
separate, and hit him where he lives. See? Finding his dwelling place is
the trouble."
"Mickey, I do see," cried Douglas. "What you tell me will be invaluable to
me. You know I am from another land so I have personal ways of thinking
and the men I'm accustomed to are different. What I have been centring on
is myself, and what I can do."
"Won't work here! What you got to get a bead on here is the _other
fellow_, and how to _do_ him. See?"
"Take these books and fly," said Douglas. "I've spent one of the most
profitable hours of my life, but concretely it is an hour, and we're going
to the Country Club to-night and may stay as long as we choose and we're
going to have a grand time. You like going to the country, don't you?"
"Ain't words for telling," said Mickey, gathering his armload of books and
racing down the hall.
When the day's work was finished, with a load of books to deliver before
an office closed, they started on the run to the club house. Bruce waited
in the car while Mickey sped in with the books, and returning, to save
opening the door and crossing before the man he was fast beginning to
idolize, Mickey took one of his swift cuts across the back end of the car.
While his hand was outstretched and his foot uplifted to enter, from a
high-piled passing truck toppled a box, not a big box, but large enough to
knock Mickey senseless and breathless when it struck him between the
shoulders. Douglas had Mickey in the car with orders for the nearest
hospital, toward which they were hurrying, when the boy opened his eyes
and sat up. He looked inquiringly at Douglas, across whose knees he had
found himself.
"Wha--what happened?" he questioned with his first good indrawing of
recovered breath.
"A box fell from a truck loaded past reason and almost knocked the life
out of you!" cried Douglas.
"'Knocked the life out of me?'" repeated Mickey.
"You've been senseless for three blocks, Mickey."
A slow horror spread over Mickey's face.
"Wha--what was you going to do?" he wavered.
"Running for a hospital," said Douglas.
"S'pose my head had been busted, and I'd been stretched on the glass table
and maybe laid up for days or knocked out altogether?" demanded Mickey.
"You'd have had the best surgeon in Multiopolis, and every care, Mickey,"
assured Douglas.
"Ugh!" Mickey collapsed utterly.
"Must be hurt worse than I thought," was Douglas' mental comment. "He
couldn't be a coward!"
But Mickey almost proved that very thing by regaining his senses again,
and immediately falling into spasms of long-drawn, shuddering sobbing.
Douglas held him carefully, every moment becoming firmer in his conviction
of one of two things: either he was hurt worse or he was----He would not
let himself think it; but never did boy appear to less advantage. Douglas
urged the driver to speed. Mickey heard and understood.
"Never mind," he sobbed. "I'm all right Mr. Bruce; I ain't hurt. Not much!
I'll be all right in a minute!"
"If you're not hurt, what _is_ the matter with you?"
"A minute!" gasped Mickey, as another spasm of sobbing caught him.
"I am amazed!" cried Douglas. "A little jolt like that! You are acting
like a coward, Mickey!"
The word straightened Mickey.
"Coward! Who? Me!" he cried. "Me that's made my way since I can remember?
Coward, did you say?"
"Of course not, Mickey!" cried Douglas. "Excuse me. I shouldn't have said
that. But it is unlike you. What the devil _is_ the matter with you?"
"I helped carry in a busted head and saw the glass table once," he cried.
"Inch more and it would a-been my head--and I might have been knocked out
for days. O Lord! What will I _do?_"
"Mickey you're not afraid?" asked Douglas.
"'Fraid? Me? 'Bout as good as coward!"
"What is the matter with you?" demanded Douglas.
Mickey stared at him amazedly.
"O Lord!" he panted. "You don't s'pose I was thinking about _myself_, do
you?"
"I don't know what to think!" exclaimed Douglas.
"Sure! How could you?" conceded Mickey.
He choked back another big dry sob.
"Gimme a minute to think!" he said. "O God! What have I been doing? I see
now what I'm up against!"
"Mickey," said Douglas Bruce, suddenly filled with compassion, "I am
beginning to understand. Won't you tell me?"
"I guess I got to," panted Mickey. "But I'm afraid! O Lord, I'm so
afraid!"
"Afraid of me, Mickey?" asked Douglas gently now.
"Yes, afraid of you," said Mickey, "and afraid of her. Afraid of her, more
than you."
"You mean Miss Winton?" pursued Douglas.
"Yes, I mean Miss Winton," replied Mickey. "I guess I don't risk her, or
you either. I guess I go to the Nurse Lady. She's used to folks in
trouble. She's trained to know what to do. Why sure! That's the thing!"
"Your back hurts, Mickey?" questioned Douglas.
"My back hurts? Aw forget my back!" cried Mickey roughly. "I ain't hurt,
honest I ain't."
Douglas took a long penetrating look at the small shaking figure, then he
said softly: "I wish you wanted to confide in me, Mickey! I can't tell you
how glad I'd be if you'd trust me; but if you have some one else you like
better, where is it you want to be driven?"
"_Course_ there ain't any one I _like_ better than you, 'cept----" he
caught a name on the tip of his tongue and paused. "You see it's like
this: I've been to this Nurse Lady before, and I know exactly what she'll
say and think. If you don't think like I do, and if you go and take----"
"Gracious Heaven Mickey, you don't think I'd try to take anything you
wanted, do you?" demanded Douglas.
"I don't know _what_ you'd do," said Mickey. "I only know what one Swell
Dame I struck wanted to do."
"Mickey," said Douglas, "when I don't know what you are thinking about, I
can't be of much help; but I'd give considerable if you felt that you had
come to trust me."
"Trust you? Sure I trust you, about myself. But this is----" cried Mickey.
"This is about some one else?" asked Douglas casually.
Mickey leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bent with intense
thinking.
"Much as you are doing for me," he muttered, "if you really care, if it
makes a difference to you--of course I can _trust_ you, if you _don't_
think as I do!"
"You surely can!" cried Douglas Bruce. "Now Mickey, both of us are too
shaken to care for the country; take me home with you and let's have
supper together and become acquainted. We can't know each other on my
ground alone. I must meet you on yours, and prove that I'm really your
friend. Let's go where you live and have supper."
"Go where I live? You?" cried Mickey.
"Yes! You come from where you live fresh and clean each day, so can I.
Take me home with you. I want to go dreadfully, Mickey. Please?"
"Well, I ain't such a cad I'm afraid for you to see how I live," he said.
"Though you wouldn't want to come more than once; that ain't what I was
thinking about."
"Think all you like, Mickey," said Douglas. "Henry, drive to the end of
the car line where you've gone before."
On the way he stopped at a grocery, then a cafe, and at each place piles
of tempting packages were placed in the car. Mickey's brain was working
fast. One big fact was beginning to lift above all the others. His
treasure was slipping from him, and for her safety it had to be so. If he
had been struck on the head, forced to undergo an operation, and had lain
insensible for hours--Mickey could go no further with that thought. He had
to stop and proceed with the other part of his problem. Of course she was
better off with him than where she had been; no sane person could dispute
that; she was happy and looking improved each day but--could she be made
happier and cared for still better by some one else, and cured without the
long wait for him to earn the money? If she could, what would be the right
name for him, if he kept her on what he could do? So they came at last as
near as the car could go to Mickey's home in Sunrise Alley. At the foot of
the last flight Mickey paused, package laden.
"Now I'll have to ask you to wait a minute," he said.
He ascended, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Peaches' eyes gleamed
with interest at the packages, but she waved him back. As Mickey closed
the door she cried: "My po'try piece! Say it, Mickey!"
"You'll have to wait again," said Mickey. "I got hit in the back with a
box and it knocked the poetry out of me. You'll have to wait 'til after
supper to-night, and then I'll fix the grandest one yet. Will that do?"
"Yes, if the box hit hard, Mickey," conceded Peaches.
"It hit so blame hard, Miss Chicken, that it knocked me down and knocked
me out, and Mr. Bruce picked me up and carried me three blocks in his car
before I got my wind or knew what ailed me."
Peaches' face was tragic; her hands stretched toward him. Mickey was
young, and his brain was whirling so it whirled off the thought that came
first.
"And if it had hit me _hard_ enough to bust my head, and I'd been carried
to a hospital to be mended and wouldn't a-knowed what hurt me for days,
like sometimes, who'd a-fed and bathed you, Miss?"
Peaches gazed at him wordless.
"You close your mouth and tell me, Miss," demanded Mickey, brutal with
emotion. "If I hadn't come, what would you have done?"
Peaches shut her mouth and stared while it was closed. At last she
ventured a solution.
"You'd a-told our Nurse Lady," she said.
Mickey made an impatient gesture.
"Hospitals by the dozen, kid," he said, "and not a chance in a hundred I'd
been took to the 'Star of Hope,' and times when your head is busted, you
don't know a thing for 'most a _week_. What would you _do_ if I didn't
come for a week?"
"I'd have to slide off the bed if it killed me, and roll to the cupboard,
and make the things do," said Peaches.
"You couldn't get up to it to save your life," said Mickey, "and there's
never enough for a week, and you couldn't get to the water--what would you
_do?_"
"Mickey, what would I do?" wavered Peaches.
"Well, I know, if you don't," said Mickey, "and I ain't going to tell you;
but I'll tell you this much: you'd be scared and hurt worse than you ever
was yet; and it's soon going to be too hot for you here, so I got to move
you to a cooler place, and I don't risk being the only one knowing where
you are another day; or my think-tank will split. It's about split now. I
don't want to do it, Miss, but I got to, so you take your drink and lemme
straighten you, and wash your face, and put your pretties on; then Mr.
Douglas Bruce, that we work for now, is coming to see you and he's going
to stay for supper--Now cut it out! Shut right up! Here, lemme fix you,
and you see, Miss, that you act a _lady_ girl, and don't make me lose my
job with my boss, or we can't pay our rent. Hold still 'til I get your
ribbon right, and slip a fresh nightie on you. There!"
"Mickey----" began Peaches.
"Shut up!" said Mickey in desperation. "Now mind this, Miss! You belong to
_me!_ I'm taking care of you. You answer what he says to you pretty or
you'll not get any supper this night, and look at them bundles he got. Sit
up and be nice! This is a party!"
Mickey darted around arranging the room, then he flung the door wide and
called: "Ready!"
Douglas Bruce climbed the stairs and entered the door. As Mickey expected,
his gaze centred and stopped. Mickey began taking packages from his hands;
still gazing Douglas yielded them. Then he stepped forward when Mickey
placed the chair, and said: "Mr. Douglas Bruce, this is Lily. This is Lily
Peaches O'Halloran. Will you have a chair?" He turned to Peaches, putting
his arm around her as he bent to kiss her.
"He's all right, Flowersy-girl," he said. "We _like_ to have him come.
He's our friend. Our big, nice friend who won't let a soul on earth get
us. He doesn't even want us himself, 'cause he's got _one_ girl. His girl
is the Moonshine Lady that sent you the doll. Maybe she will come some day
too, and maybe she'll make the Precious Child a new dress."
Peaches clung to Mickey and past him peered at her visitor, and the
visitor smiled his most winning smile. He recognized Leslie's ribbon, and
noted the wondrous beauty of the small white face, now slowly flushing the
faintest pink with excitement. Still clinging she smiled back. Wordless,
Douglas reached over to pick up the doll. Then the right thought came at
last.
"Has the Precious Child been good to-day?" he asked.
Peaches released Mickey, dropping back against her pillows, her smile now
dazzling. "Jus' as _good!_" she said.
"Fine!" said Douglas, straightening the long dress.
"An' that's my slate and lesson," said Peaches.
"Fine!" he said again as if it were the only adjective he knew. Mickey
glanced at him, grinning sympathetically, "She does sort of knock you
out!" he said.
"'Sort' is rather poor. Completely, would be better," said Douglas. "She's
the loveliest little sister in all the world, but she doesn't resemble
you. Is she like your mother?"
"Lily isn't my sister, only as you wanted me for a brother," said Mickey.
"She was left and nobody was taking care of her. She's my find and you bet
your life I'm going to _keep_ her!"
"Oh! And how long have you had her, Mickey?"
"Now that's just what the Orphings' Home dame asked me," said Mickey with
finality, "and we are nix on those dames and their askings. Lily is
_mine_, I tell you. My family. Now you visit with her, while I get
supper."
Mickey pushed up the table, then began opening packages and setting forth
their contents. Watching him as he moved swiftly and with assurance, his
head high, his lips even, a slow deep respect for the big soul in the
little body began to dawn in the heart of Douglas Bruce. Understanding of
Mickey came in rivers swift and strong, so while he wondered and while he
watched entranced, over and over in his head went the line: "Fools rush in
where angels fear to tread." With every gentle act of Mickey for the child
Douglas' liking for him grew. When he went over the supper and with the
judgment of a nurse selected the most delicate and suitable food for her,
in the heart of the Scotsman swelled the marvel and the miracle that
silenced criticism.
CHAPTER XI
_The Advent of Nancy and Peter_
When Leslie began the actual work of closing her home, and loading what
would be wanted for the country, she found the task too big for the time
allotted, so wisely telephoned Douglas that she would be compelled to
postpone seeing him until the following day.
"Leslie," laughed Douglas over the telephone, "did you ever hear of the
man who cut off his dog's tail an inch at a time, so it wouldn't hurt so
badly?"
"I have heard of that particular dog."
"Well this process of cutting me out of seeing you a day at a time reminds
me of 'that particular dog,' and evokes my sympathy for the canine as
never before."
"It's a surprise I am getting ready for you Douglas!"
"It _is_ a surprise all right," answered Douglas, "and 'Bearer of
Morning,' I have got a surprise for you too."
"Oh goody!" cried Leslie. "I adore surprises."
"You'll adore this one!"
"You might give me a hint!" she suggested.
"Very well!" he laughed. "Since last I saw you I have seen the loveliest
girl of my experience."
"Delightful! Am I to see her also?"
"Undoubtedly!" explained Douglas. "And you'll succumb to her charms just
as I did."
"When may I meet her?" asked Leslie eagerly.
"I can't say; but soon now."
"All right!" agreed the girl. "Be ready at four tomorrow."
Leslie sat in frowning thought a moment, before the telephone; then her
ever-ready laugh bubbled. "Why didn't I think of it while I was talking?"
she wondered. "Of course Mickey has taken him to visit his Lily. I must
see about that wrong back before bone and muscle harden."
Then she began her task. By evening she had a gasoline stove set up, the
kitchen provisioned, her father's room ready and arrangements sufficiently
completed that she sent the car to bring him to his dinner of cornbread
and bacon under an apple tree scattering pink petals beside the kitchen
door, with every lake breeze. Then they went fishing and landed three
black bass.
Douglas Bruce did not mind one day so much, but he resented two. When he
greeted Mickey that morning it was not with the usual salutation of his
friends, so the boy knew there was something not exactly right. He was not
feeling precisely jovial himself. He was under suspended judgment. He knew
that when Mr. Bruce had time to think, and talk over the situation with
Miss Winton, both of them might very probably agree with the woman who
said the law would take Lily from him and send her to a charity home for
children.
Mickey, with his careful drilling on the subject, was in rebellion. _How_
could the law take Lily from him? Did the law know anything _about_ her?
Was she in the _care_ of the law when he found her? Wouldn't the law have
allowed her to _die_ grovelling in filth and rags, inside a few more
hours? He had not infringed on the law in any way; he had merely saved a
life the law had forgotten to save. Now when he had it in his possession
and in far better condition than he found it, how had the law _power_ to
step in and rob him?
Mickey did not understand, while there was nothing in his heart that could
teach him. He had found her: he would keep her. The Orphans' Home should
not have her. The law should not have her. Only one possibility had any
weight with Mickey: if some one like Mr. Bruce or Miss Winton wanted to
give her a home of luxury, could provide care at once, for which he would
be forced to wait years to earn the money; if they wanted her and the
Carrel man of many miracles would come for them; did he dare leave her
lying an hour, when there was even hope she might be on her feet? There
was only one answer to that with Mickey, but it pained his heart. So his
greeting lacked its customary spontaneity.
By noon Bruce was irritable, while Mickey was as nearly sullen as it was
in his nature to be. At two o'clock Bruce surrendered, summoned the car,
and started to the golf grounds. He had played three holes when he
overtook a man who said a word that arrested his attention, so both of
them stopped, and with notebooks and pencils, under the shade of a big
tree began discussing the question that meant more to Douglas than
anything save Leslie. He dismissed Mickey for the afternoon, promising him
that if he would be ready by six, he should be driven back to the city.
Mickey wanted to be alone to concentrate on his problem, but people were
everywhere and more coming by the carload. He could see no place that was
then, or would be, undisturbed. The long road with grassy sides gave big
promises of leading somewhere to the quiet retreat he sought. Telling the
driver that if he were not back by six, he would be waiting down the road,
Mickey started on foot, in thought so deep he scarcely appreciated the
grasses he trod, the perfume in his nostrils, the concert in his ears.
What did at last arouse him was the fact that he was very thirsty. That
made him realize that this was the warmest day of the season. Instantly
his mind flew to the mite of a girl, lying so patiently, watching the
clock for his coming, living for the sound of his feet.
Mickey stopped, studying the landscape. A cool gentle breeze crossed the
clover field beside the way, refreshing him in its passing. He sucked his
lungs full, then lifted his cap, shaking the hair from his forehead. He
stuffed the cap into his pocket, walking slowly along, intending to stop
at the nearest farmhouse to ask for water. But the first home was not to
Mickey's liking. He went on, passing another and another.
Then he came to land that attracted him. The fences were so straight. The
corners so clean where they were empty, so delightful where they were
filled with alder, wild plum, hawthorn; attractive locations for the birds
of the bushes that were field and orchard feeders. Then the barn and
outbuildings looked so neat and prosperous; grazing cattle in rank meadows
were so sleek; then a big white house began to peep from the screen of
vines, bushes and trees.
"Well if the water here gives you fever, it will anywhere," said Mickey,
and turning in at the open gate started up a walk having flower beds on
each side. There was a wide grassy lawn where the big trees scattered
around afforded almost complete shade. Mickey never had seen a home like
it closely. He scarcely could realize that there were places in the world
where families lived alone like this. He tried to think how he would feel
if he belonged there. When he reached the place where he saw Lily on a
comfort under a big bloom-laden pear tree, his throat grew hard, his eyes
dry and his feet heavy. Then the screen to the front door swung back as a
smiling woman in a tidy gingham dress came through and stood awaiting
Mickey.
"I just told Peter when he came back alone, I bet a penny you'd got off at
the wrong stop!" she cried. "I'm so glad you found your way by yourself.
But you must be tired and hot walking. Come right in and have a glass of
milk, then strip your feet and I'll ring for Junior."
For one second Mickey was dazed. The next, he knew what it must mean.
These people were the kind whom God had made so big and generous they
divided home and summer with tenement children from the big city thirty
miles away. Some boy was coming for a week, maybe, into what exactly
filled Mickey's idea of Heaven, but he was not the boy.
"'Most breaks my heart to tell you," he said, "but I ain't the boy you're
expecting. I'm just taking a walk and I thought maybe you'd let me have a
drink. I've wanted one past the last three houses, but none looked as if
they'd have half such good, cool water as this."
"Now don't that beat the nation!" exclaimed the woman. "The Multiopolis
papers are just oozing sympathy for the poor city children who are wild
for woods and water; and when I'd got myself nerved up to try one and
thought it over till I was really anxious about it, and got my children
all worked up too, here for the second time Peter knocks off plowing and
goes to the trolley to meet one, and he doesn't come. I've got a notion to
write the editor of the _Herald_ and tell him my experience. I think it's
funny! But you wanted water, come this way."
Mickey followed a footpath white with pear petals around the big house and
standing beside a pump waited while the woman stepped to the back porch
for a cup. He took it, drinking slowly.
"Thank you ma'am," he said as he handed it back, turning to the path.
Yesterday had weakened his nerve. He was going to cry again. He took a
quick step forward, but the woman was beside him, her hand on his
shoulder.
"Wait a minute," she said. "Sit on this bench under the pear tree. I want
to ask you something. Excuse me and rest until I come back."
Mickey leaned against the tree, shutting his eyes, fighting with all his
might. He was too big to cry. The woman would think him a coward as Mr.
Bruce had. Then things happened as they actually do at times. The woman
hurriedly came from the door, sat on the bench beside him, and said: "I
went in there to watch you through the window, but I can't stand this a
second longer. You poor child you, now tell me right straight what's the
matter!"
Mickey tried but no sound came. The woman patted his shoulder. "Now
doesn't it beat the band?" she said, to the backyard in general. "Just a
little fellow not in long trousers yet, and bearing such a burden he can't
talk. I guess maybe God has a hand in this. I'm not so sure my boy hasn't
come after all. Who are you, and where are you going? Don't you want to
send your ma word you will stay here a week with me?"
Mickey lifted a bewildered face.
"Why, I couldn't, lady," he said brokenly, but gaining control as he went
on. "I must work. Mr. Bruce needs me. I'm a regular plute compared with
most of the 'newsies'; you wouldn't want to do anything for me who has so
much; but if you're honestly thinking about taking a boy and he hasn't
come, how would you like to have a little girl in his place? A little girl
about _so_ long, and _so_ wide, with a face like Easter church flowers,
and rings of gold on her head, and who wouldn't be half the trouble a boy
would, because she hasn't ever walked, so she couldn't get into things."
"Oh my goodness! A crippled little girl?"
"She isn't crippled," said Mickey. "She's as straight as you are, what
there is of her. She had so little food, and care, her back didn't seem to
stiffen, so her legs won't walk. She wouldn't be half so much trouble as a
boy. Honest, dearest lady, she wouldn't!"
"Who are you?" asked the woman.
Mickey produced a satisfactory pedigree, and gave unquestionable
references which she recognized, for she slowly nodded at the names of
Chaffner and Bruce.
"And who is the little girl you are asking me to take?"
Mickey studied the woman and then began to talk, cautiously at first.
Ashamed to admit the squalor and the awful truth of how he had found the
thing he loved, then gathering courage he began what ended in an
outpouring. The woman watched him, listening, and when Mickey had no
further word: "She is only a tiny girl?" she asked wonderingly.
"The littlest girl you ever saw," said Mickey.
"Perfectly helpless?" marvelled the woman.
"Oh no! She can sit up and use her hands," said Mickey. "She can feed
herself, write on her slate, and learn her lessons. It's only that she
stays put. She has to be lifted if she's moved."
"You lift her?" queried the woman.
"Could with one hand," said Mickey tersely.
"You say this young lawyer you work for, whose name I see in the _Herald_
connected with the investigation going on, is at the club house now?" she
asked.
"Yes," answered Mickey.
"He's coming past here this evening?" she pursued.
Mickey explained.
"About how much waiting on would your little girl take?" she asked next.
"Well just at present, she does the waiting on me," said Mickey. "You see,
dearest lady, I have to get her washed and fix her breakfast and her lunch
beside the bed, and be downtown by seven o'clock, and I don't get back
'til six. Then I wash her again to freshen her up and cook her supper.
Then she says her lesson, her prayers and goes to sleep. So you see it's
mostly _her_ waiting on _me_. A boy couldn't be less trouble than that,
could he?"
"It doesn't seem like it," said the woman, "and no matter how much bother
she was, I guess I could stand it for a week, if she's such a little girl,
and can't walk. The difficulty is this: I promised my son Junior a boy and
his heart is so set. He's wild about the city. He's going to be gone
before we know it. He doesn't seem to care for anything we have, or do. I
don't know just what he hoped to get out of a city boy; but I promised him
one. Then I felt scared and wrote Mr. Chaffner how it was and asked him to
send me a real nice boy who could be trusted. If it were not for Junior--
Mary and the Little Man would be delighted."
"Well never mind," said Mickey. "I'll go see the Nurse Lady and maybe she
can think of a plan. Anyway I don't know as it would be best for Lily. If
she came here a week, seems like it would kill me to take her back, and I
don't know how she'd bear staying alone all day, after she had got used to
company. And pretty soon now it's going to get so hot, top floors in the
city, that if she had a week like this, going back would make her sick."
"You must give me time to think," said the woman. "Peter will soon be home
to supper. I'll talk it over with him and with Junior and see what they
think. Where could you be found in Multiopolis? We drive in every few
days. We like to go ourselves, and there's no other way to satisfy the
children. They get so tired and lonesome in the country."
Mickey was aghast. "They _do?_ Why it doesn't seem possible! I wish I
could trade jobs with Junior for a while. What is his work?"
"He drives the creamery wagon," answered the woman.
"O Lord!" Mickey burst forth. "Excuse me ma'am, I mean----Oh my! Drives a
real live horse along these streets and gathers up the cream cans we pass
at the gates, and takes them to the trolley?"
"Yes," she said.
"And he'd give up _that_ job for blacking somebody's shoes, or carrying
papers, or running errands, or being shut up all summer in a big hot
building! Oh my!"
"When will you be our way again?" asked the woman. "I'll talk this over
with Peter. If we decided to try the little girl and she did the 'waiting'
as you say, she couldn't be much trouble. I should think we could manage
her, and a boy too. I wish you could be the boy. I'd like to have _you_.
I've been thinking if we could get a boy to show Junior what it is he
wants to know about a city, he'd be better satisfied at home, but I don't
know. It's just possible it might make him worse. Now such an
understanding boy as you seem to be, maybe you could teach Junior things
about the city that would make him contented at _home_. Do you think you
could?"
"Dearest lady, I _get_ you," said Mickey. "_Do I think I could?_ Well if
you really wished me to, I could take your Junior to Multiopolis with me
for a week and make him so sick he'd never want to see a city again while
his palpitator was running."
"Hu'umh!" said the lady slowly, her eyes on far distance. "Let me think! I
don't know but that would be a fine thing for all of us. We have land
enough for a nice farm for both boys, and the way things look now, land
seems about as sure as anything; we could give them a farm apiece when we
are done with it, and the girl the money to take to her home when she
marries--I would love to know that Junior was going to live on land as his
father does; but all his life he's talked about working in the city when
he grows up. Hu'umh!"
"Well if you want him cured of that, gimme the job," he grinned. "You see
lady, I know the city, inside out and outside in again. I been playing the
game with it since I can remember. You can't tell me anything I don't know
about the lowest, poorest side of it. Oh I could tell you things that
would make your head swim. If you want your boy dosed just sick as a horse
on what a workingman gets in Multiopolis 'tween Sunrise Alley and Biddle
Boulevard, just you turn him over to me a week. I'll fix him. I'll make
the creamery job look like 'Lijah charioteering for the angels to him,
honest I will lady; and he won't ever _know_ it, either. He'll come
through with a lump in his neck, and a twist in his stummick that means
home and mother. See?"
The woman looked at Mickey in wide-eyed and open-mouthed amazement: "Well
if I ever!" she gasped.
"If you don't believe me, try it," said Mickey.
"Well! Well! I'll have to think," she said. "I don't know but it would be
a good thing if it could be done."
"Well don't you have any misgivings about it being done," said Mickey.
"It's being _done_ every day. I know men, hundreds of them, just scraping,
and slaving and half starving to get together the dough to pull out. I
hear it on the cars, on the streets, and see it in the papers. They're
jumping their jobs and going every day, while hundreds of
Schmeltzenschimmers, O'Laughertys, Hansons, and Pietros are coming in to
take their places. Multiopolis is more than half filled with crowd-outs
from across the ocean now, instead of home folks' cradles, as it should
be. If Junior has got a hankering for Multiopolis that is going to cut him
out of owning a place like this, and bossing his own job, dearest lady,
cook him! Cook him quick!"
"Would you come here?" she questioned.
"Would I?" cried Mickey. "Well try me and see!"
"I'm deeply interested in what you say about Junior," she said. "I'll talk
it over to-night with Peter."
"Well I don't know," said Mickey. "He might put the grand kibosh on it.
Hard! But if Junior came back asking polite for his mush and milk, and
offering his Christmas pennies for the privilege of plowing, or driving
the cream wagon, believe me dear lady, then Peter would fall on your neck
and weep for joy."
"Yes, in that event, he would," said the lady, "and the temptation is so
great, that I believe if you'll give me your address, I'll look you up the
next time I come to Multiopolis, which will be soon. I'd like to see your
Lily before I make any promises. If I thought I could manage, I could
bring her right out in the car. Tell me where to find you, and I'll see
what Peter thinks."
Mickey grinned widely. "You ain't no suffragette lady, are you?" he
commented.
"Well I don't know about that," said the lady. "There are a good many
things to think of these days."
"Yes I know," said Mickey, "but as long as everything you say swings the
circle and rounds up with Peter, it's no job to guess what's most
important in your think-tank. Peter must be some pumpkins!"
"Come to think of it, he is, Mickey," she said. "Come to think of it, I do
sort of revolve around Peter. We always plan together. Not that we always
_think_ alike: there are some things I just _can't_ make Peter see, that I
wish I _could;_ but I wouldn't trade Peter----"
"No I guess he's top crust," laughed Mickey.
"He is so!" said the woman. "How did you say I could reach you?"
"Well, the easiest way would be this. Here, I'll write the number for
you."
"Fine!" said the woman. "I'll hurry through my shopping and call you--when
would it suit you best?"
"Never mind me," said Mickey. "For this, I'll come when you say."
"What about three in the afternoon, then?"
"Sure!" cried Mickey. "Suits me splendid! Mostly quit for the day then.
But ma'am, I don't know about this. Lily isn't used to anybody but me, she
may be afraid to come with you."
"And I may think I would scarcely want to try to take care of her for a
week, when I see her," said the woman.
"You may think that now, but you'll change your mind when you see her,"
said Mickey. "Dearest lady, when you see a little white girl that hasn't
ever walked, smiling up at you shy and timid, you won't be any more
anxious for Orphings' Homes and Charity Palaces to swallow her up than I
am; not a bit! All I must think of is what Lily will say about coming.
She's never been out of my room since I found her, and she hasn't seen any
one but Mr. Bruce, so she'll be afraid, and worried. _Seeing her_ is all I
ask of _you!_ What I'm up against is what she's going to say; and how I'm
going to take her _back_ after a week here, when it will be hotter there
and lonesomer than ever."
"You surely give one things to think about," commented the woman.
"Do I?" queried Mickey. "Well I don't know as I should. Probably with
Peter, and three children of your own, and this farm to run, you are busy
enough without spending any of your time on me."
"The command in the good book is plain: 'Bear ye one another's burdens,'"
quoted the woman.
"Oh yes! 'Burdens,' of course!" agreed Mickey. "But that couldn't mean
Lily, 'cause she's nothing but joy! Just pure joy! All about her is that a
fellow loves her so, that it keeps him laying awake at nights thinking how
to do what would be _best_ for her. She's mine, and I'm going to _keep_
her; that's the surest thing you know. If I take you to see Lily, and if I
decide to let you have her a few days to rest her and fresh her up, you
wouldn't go and want to put her 'mong the Orphings' Home kids, would you?
You wouldn't think she ought to be took from me and raised in a flock of
every kind, from every place. Would you lady?"
"No, I wouldn't," said the lady. "I see how you feel, and I am sure I
wouldn't want that for one of mine."
"Well, there's no question about her being _mine!_" said Mickey. "But I
like you so, maybe I'll let you _help_ me a _little_. A big boy that can
run and play doesn't need you, dearest lady, half so much as my little
girl. Do you think he does?"
"No, I think the Lord sent you straight here. If you don't stop I'll be so
worked up I can't rest. I may come to-morrow."
Mickey arose, holding out his hand.
"Thank you dearest lady," he said. "I must be getting out where the car
won't pass without my seeing it."
"You wait at the gate a minute," she said, "I want to send in a little
basket of things to-night. I'll have it ready in a jiffy."
Mickey slowly walked to the gate. When the woman came with a basket
covered with a white cloth, he thanked her again; as he took it he rested
his head against her arm, smiling up at her with his wide true eyes.
"A thing I can't understand is," he said, "why when the Lord was making
mothers, he didn't cut all of them from the same piece he did you. I'll
just walk on down the road and smell June beside this clover field. Is it
yours?"
"Yes," she said.
"Would you care if I'd take just a few to Lily? I know she never saw any."
"Take a bunch as big as your head if you want them."
"Lily is so little, three will do her just as well; besides, she's got to
remember how we are fixed, so she needn't begin to expect things to come
her way by baskets and bunches," said Mickey. "She's bound to be spoiled
bad enough as it is. I can't see how I'm going to come out with her, but
she's mine, and I'm going to keep her."
"Mickey," laughed the woman, "don't you think you swing around to Lily
just about the way I do to Peter?"
"Well maybe I do," conceded Mickey.
"What kind of a car did you say Mr. Bruce has?"
"Oh the car is dark green, and the driver has sandy hair; and Mr. Bruce--
why you'd know him anywhere! Just look for the finest man you ever saw, if
you are out when he goes by, and that will be Mr. Douglas Bruce."
"I guess I'll know him if I happen to be out."
"Sure lady, you couldn't miss him," replied Mickey.
Carefully holding his basket he went down the road. The woman made supper
an hour late standing beside the gate watching for a green car. Many
whirled past, then at last one with the right look came gliding along; so
she stepped out and raised her hand for a parley. The car stopped.
"Mr. Douglas Bruce?" she asked.
"At your service, Madam!" he answered.
"Just a word with you," she said.
He arose instantly, swung open the car door, and stepping down walked with
her to the shade of a big widely branching maple. The woman looked at him,
and said flushing and half confused: "Please to excuse me for halting you,
but I had a reason. This afternoon such an attractive little fellow
stopped here to ask for a drink in passing. Now Peter and I had decided
we'd try our hand at taking a city boy for a week or so for his vacation,
and twice Peter has left his work and gone to the trolley station to fetch
him, and he failed us. I supposed Peter had missed him, so when I saw the
boy coming, just the first glimpse my heart went right out to him----"
"Very likely----" assented Mr. Bruce.
"He surely is the most winning little chap I ever saw with his keen blue
eyes and that sort of light on his forehead," said the woman.
"I've noticed that," put in the man.
"Yes," she said, "anybody would see that almost the first thing. So I
thought he was the boy I was to mother coming, and I went right at the
job. He told me quick enough that I was mistaken, but I could see he was
in trouble. Someway I'd trust him with my character or my money, but I got
to be perfectly sure before I trust him with my children. You see I have
three, and if ever any of them go wrong, I don't want it to be because I
was _careless_. I thought I'd like to have him around some; my oldest boy
is bigger, but just about his age. He said he might be out this way with
you this summer and I wanted to ask him in, and do what I could to
entertain him; but first I wanted to inquire of you----"
"I see!" said Douglas Bruce. "I haven't known Mickey so long, but owing to
the circumstances in which I met him, and the association with him since,
I feel that I know him better than I could most boys in a longer time. The
strongest thing I can say to you is this: had I a boy of my own, I should
be proud if Mickey liked him and would consider being friends with him. He
is absolutely trustworthy, that I know."
"Then I won't detain your further," she said.
Mickey, cheered in mind and heart, had walked ahead briskly with his
basket, while as he went he formulated his plans. He would go straight to
the Sunshine Nurse, tell her about the heat and this possible chance to
take Lily to the country for a week, and consult with her as to what the
effect of the trip might be, and what he could do with her afterward, then
he would understand better. He kept watching the clover field beside the
way. When he decided he had reached the finest, best perfumed place, he
saw a man plowing on the other side of the fence and thought it might be
Peter and that Peter would wonder what he was doing in his field, so
Mickey set the basket in a corner and advanced.
He was wonderfully elated by what had happened to him and the conclusions
at which he had arrived, as he came across the deep grasses beside the
fence where the pink of wild rose and the snow of alder commingled, where
song sparrows trilled, and larks and quail were calling. He approached
smiling in utter confidence. As he looked at the man, at his height, his
strong open face, his grip on the plow, he realized why the world of the
little woman revolved around Peter. Mickey could have conceived of few
happier fates than being attached to Peter, so he thought in amazement of
the boy who wanted to leave him. Then a slow grin spread over his face,
for by this time Peter had stopped his horses and was awaiting him with an
answering smile and hand outstretched.
"Why son, I'm glad to see you!" he cried. "How did I come to miss you? Did
you get off at the wrong stop?"
Mickey shook his head as he took the proffered hand.
"You are Peter?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm Peter," confirmed the man.
"Well you're making the same mistake your pleasant lady did," explained
Mickey. "She thought I was the boy who had been sent to visit you, so she
gave me the glad hand too. I wish I was in his shoes! But I'm not your
boy. Gee, your lady is a nice gentle lady."
"You're all correct there," agreed Peter. "And so you are not the boy who
was to be sent us. Pshaw now! I wish you were. I'm disappointed. I've been
watching you coming down the road, and the way you held together and
stepped up so brisk and neat took my eye."
"I been 'stepping up brisk and neat' to sell papers, run errands, hop
cars, dodge cars and automobiles, and climbing fire-escapes instead of
stairs, and keeping from under foot since I can remember," laughed Mickey.
"You learn on the streets of Multiopolis to step up, and watch sharp
without knowing you are doing it."
"You're a newsboy?" asked Peter.
"I was all my life 'til a few days ago," said Mickey. "Then I went into
the office of Mr. Douglas Bruce. He's a corporation lawyer in the Iriquois
Building."
"Hum, I've been reading about him," said Peter. "If I ever have a case,
I'm going to take it to him."
"Well you'll have a man that will hang on and dig in and _sweat_ for you,"
said Mickey. "Just now he's after some of them big office-holders who are
bleeding the taxpayers of Multiopolis. Some of these days if you watch
your _Herald_ sharp, you're going to see the lid fly off of two or three
things at once. He's on a hot trail now."
"Why I have seen that in the papers," said Peter. "He was given the job of
finding who is robbing the city, by James Minturn; I remember his name.
And you work for him? Well, well! Sit down here and tell me about it."
"I can't now," said Mickey. "I must get back to the road. His car may pass
any minute, and I'm to be ready. Your pleasant lady said I might take a
few clover flowers to my little sick girl, and just as I came to the
finest ones in the field, I saw you so I thought maybe I'd better tell you
what I was doing before you fired me."
"Take all you want," said Peter. "I'd like to send the whole field, larks
and all, to a little sick girl. I'd like especial to send her some of
these clowny bobolink fellows to puff up and spill music by the quart for
her; I guess nothing else runs so smooth except water."
"I don't know what she'd say," said Mickey gazing around him. "You see she
hasn't ever walked, so all she's seen in her life has been the worst kind
of bare, dark tenement walls, 'til lately she's got a high window where
she can see sky, and a few sparrows that come for crumbs. This!"--Mickey
swept his arm toward the landscape--"I don't know what she'd say to this!"
"Pshaw, now!" cried Peter. "Why bring her out! You bring her right out!
That's what we been wanting to know. Just what a city child would _think_
of country things she'd never seen before. Bring her to see us!"
"She's a little bit of a thing and she can't walk, you know," explained
Mickey.
"Poor little mite! That's too bad," lamented Peter. "Wonder if she
couldn't be doctored up. It's a shame she can't walk, but taking care of
her must be easy!"
"Oh she takes care of herself," said Mickey. "You see she is alone all day
from six 'til six; she must take care of herself, so she studies her
lesson, and plays with her doll--I mean her Precious Child."
"Too bad!" said Peter. "By jacks that's a sin! Did you happen to speak to
Ma about her?"
"We did talk a little," admitted Mickey. "She was telling me of the
visitor boy who didn't come, and your son who doesn't think he'll want to
stay; so we got to talking. She said just what you did about wanting to
see how a city child who hadn't ever seen a chicken, or a cow, or horse
would act----"
"Good Lord!" cried Peter. "_Is_ there a child in Multiopolis who hasn't
ever seen a little chicken, or a calf?"
"Hundreds of them!" said Mickey. "I've scarcely seen a cow myself. I've
seen hens and little chickens in shop windows at Easter time----"
"But not in the orchard in June?" queried Peter.
"No, 'not in the orchard in June!'" said Mickey.
"Well, well!" marvelled Peter. "There's nothing so true as that 'one half
doesn't know how the other half lives.' I've heard that, but I didn't
quite sense it, and I don't know as I do yet. You bring her right out!"
"Your pleasant lady talked about that; but you see bringing her out and
showing her these things, and getting her used to them is _one_ thing;
then taking her back to a room so hot I always sleep on the fire-escape,
and where she has to stay all day alone, is _another_. I don't know but so
long as she must go _back_ to what she has now, it would be better to
_leave_ her there."
"Humph! I see! What a pity!" exclaimed Peter. "Well, if you'll be coming
this way again, stop and see us. I'll talk to Ma about her. We often take
a little run to Multiopolis. Junior wouldn't be satisfied till we got a
car, and I can't say we ain't enjoying it ourselves. What was that you
were saying about my boy not thinking he'll stay?"
"_She_ told me," said Mickey, "about the city bug he had in his system.
Why don't you swat it immediate?"
"What do you mean?" inquired Peter.
"Turn him over to me a week or two," suggested Mickey. "I can give him a
dose of working in a city that will send him hiking back to home and
father."
"It's worth considering," said Peter.
"I know that what I got of Multiopolis would make me feel like von
Hindenberg if I had the job of handling the ribbons of your creamery
wagon; and so I know about what would put sonny back on the farm, tickled
'most to death to be here."
"By gum! Well, I'll give you just one hundred dollars if you'll do it!"
exclaimed Peter. "You see my grandfather and father owned this land before
me. We've been on the plowing job so long we have it reduced to a system,
so it comes easy for me, and I take pride and pleasure in it; I had
supposed my boys would be the same. Do you really think you could manage
it?"
"Sure," said Mickey. "Only, if you really mean it, not now, nor ever, do
you want son to _know_ it. See! The medicine wouldn't work, if he knew he
took it."
"Well I'll be jiggered!" laughed Peter. "I guess you could do it, if you
went at it right."
"Well you trust me to do it right," grinned Mickey. "Loan me sonny for a
week or two, and you can have him back for keeps."
"Well it's worth trying," said Peter. "Say, when will you be this way
again?"
"'Most any day," said Mickey. "And your lady said she'd be in Multiopolis
soon, so we are sure to have a happy meeting before long. I think that is
Mr. Bruce's car coming. Goodbye! Be good to yourself!"
With a spring from where he was standing Mickey arose in air, alighted on
the top rail of the division fence, then balancing, he raced down it
toward the road. Peter watched him in astonishment, then went back to his
plowing with many new things on his mind. Thus it happened that after
supper, when the children were in bed, and he and his wife went to the
front veranda for their usual evening visit, and talk over the day, she
had very little to tell him.
As was her custom, she removed her apron, brushed her waving hair and wore
a fresh dress. She rocked gently in her wicker chair, while her voice was
moved to unusual solicitude as she spoke. Peter also had performed a rite
he spoke of as "brushing up" for evening. He believed in the efficacy of
soap and water, so his body, as well as his clothing, was clean. He sat on
the top step leaning against the pillar where the moonlight emphasized his
big frame, accented the strong lines of his face and crowned his thick
hair, as Nancy Harding thought it should be, with glory.
"Peter," she said, "did you notice anything about that boy, this
afternoon, different from other boys?"
"Yes," answered Peter slowly, "I did Nancy. He didn't strike me as being
_one_ boy. He has the best of three or four concealed in his lean person."
"He's had a pretty tough time, I judge," said Nancy.
"Yet you never saw a boy who took your heart like he did, and neither did
I," answered Peter.
Mickey holding his basket and clover flowers was waiting when the car drew
up, and to Bruce's inquiry answered that a lady where he stopped for a
drink had given him something for Lily. He left the car in the city,
sought the nurse and luckily found her at leisure. She listened with the
greatest interest to all he had to say.
"It's a problem," she said, as he finished. "To take her to such a place
for a week, and then bring her back where she is, would be harder for her
than never going."
"I got that figured," said Mickey; "but I've about made up my mind, after
seeing the place and thinking over the folks, that it wouldn't _happen_
that way. Once they see her, and find how little trouble she is, they're
not people who would send her back 'til it's cool, if they'd want to then.
And there's this, too: there are other folks who would take her now, and
see about her back. Have I got the right to let it go a day, waiting to
earn the money myself, when some one else, maybe the Moonshine Lady, or
Mr. Bruce, would do it _now_, and not put her in an Orphings' Home,
either?"
"No Mickey, you haven't!" said the nurse.
"Just the way I have it figured," said Mickey. "But she's mine, and I'm
going to _keep_ her. If her back is fixed, I'm going to have it done. I
don't want any one else meddling with my family. You haven't heard
anything from the Carrel man yet?"
"No," she said.
"My, I wish he'd come!" cried Mickey.
"So do I," said the nurse. "But so far Mickey, I think you are doing all
right. If she must be operated, she'd have to be put in condition for it;
and while I suspect I could beat you at your job, I am positive you are
far surpassing what she did have."
"Well I know that too," said Mickey. "But surpassing nothing at all isn't
going either far or fast. I must do something."
"If you could bring yourself to consent to giving her up----" suggested
the nurse.
"Well I can't!" interposed Mickey.
"Just for a while!" continued the nurse.
"Not for a minute! I found her! She's mine!"
"Yes, I know; but----" began the nurse.
"I know too," said Mickey. "Gimme a little time." He studied the problem
till he reached his grocery. There he thriftily lifted the cloth to peep,
and with a sigh of satisfaction pursued his way. Presently he opened his
door, to be struck by a wave of hot air and to note a flushed little face
and drawn mouth as he went into Peaches' outstretched arms. Then he
delivered the carefully carried clover and the following:
"_I got these from a big, pink field bewildering,
That God made a-purpose for cows and childering.
Her share is being consumed by the cow,
Let's go roll in ours right now._"
"Again!" demanded Peaches.
Mickey repeated slowly.
"How could we?" asked Peaches.
"Easy!" said Mickey.
"'Easy?'" repeated Peaches.
"Just as easy!" reiterated Mickey.
"Did you see it?" demanded Peaches.
"Yes, I saw it to-day," said Mickey. "It's like this: you see some folks
live in houses all built together, and work at selling things to eat, and
wear, and making things, and doing other work that must be done like
doctors, and lawyers, and hospitals; _that's a city_. Then to _feed them_,
other folks live on big pieces of land; the houses are far apart, with
streets between, and beside them the big fields where the wheat grows for
our bread, and our potatoes, and the grass, and the clover like this to
feed the cows. To-day Mr. Bruce didn't play long, so I went walking and
stopped at a house for a drink, and there was the nicest lady; we talked
some and she give me our supper in that pretty basket; and she sent you
the clovers from a big pink field so sweet smelly it would 'most make you
sick; and there are trees through it, and lots of birds sing, and there
are wild roses and fringy white flowers; and it's quiet 'cept the birds,
and the roosters crowing, and the wind comes in little perfumery blows on
you, and such milk!"
"Better 'an our milk?" asked Peaches.
"Their milk is so rich it makes ours look like a poorhouse relation,"
scoffed Mickey.
"Tell me more," demanded Peaches.
"Wait 'til I get the water to wash you, you are so warm."
"Yes, it's getting some hot; but 'tain't nothing like on the rags last
summer. It's like a real lady here."
"A pretty warm lady, just the same," said Mickey.
Then he brought water and leaving the door ajar for the first time, he
soon started a draft; that with the coming of cooler evening lowered the
child's temperature, and made her hungry. As he worked Mickey talked. The
grass, the blooming orchard, the hen and her little downy chickens, the
big cool porch, the wonderful woman and man, the boy whom they expected
and who did not come; and then cautiously, slowly, making sure she
understood, he developed his plan to take her to the country. Peaches drew
back and opened her lips. Mickey promptly laid the washcloth over them.
"Now don't begin to say you 'won't' like a silly baby," he said. "Try it
and see, then if you don't like it, you can come right back. You want to
ride in a grand automobile like a millyingaire lady, don't you? All the
swells go away to the country for the summer, you got to be a swell lady!
I ain't going to have you left way behind!"
"Mickey, would you be there?" she asked.
"Yes lady, I'd be right on the job!" said Mickey. "I'd be there a lot more
than I am here. You go the week they wanted that boy, and he didn't come;
then if you like it, I'll see if they won't board you, and you can have a
nice little girl to play with, and a fat, real baby, and a boy bigger than
me--and you should see Peter!"
Peaches opened her lips, Mickey reapplied the cloth.
"Calm down now!" he ordered. "I've decided to do it. We got to hump
ourselves. This is our _chance_. Why there's milk, and butter, and eggs,
and things to eat there like you never tasted, and to have a cool breeze,
and to lie on the grass----"
"Oh Mickey, could I?" cried Peaches.
"Sure silly! Why not?" said Mickey. "There's big fields of it, and the
cows don't need it all. You can lie on the grass, or the clover, and hear
the birds, and play with the children. I'll take a day and get things
started right before I leave you to come to work, like I'll have to. When
I come at night, I'll carry your outdoors; why I'll take you down to the
water and you can kick your feet in it, where it's nice and warm; all the
time you can have as many flowers as your hands will hold; and such bird
singing, why Lily Peaches O'Halloran, there are birds as red as blood, yes
ma'am, and yellow as orange peel and light blue like this ribbon and dark
blue like that--hold still 'til I fix you--and such singing!"
"Mickey, would you hold me?" wavered Peaches.
"Smash anybody that lays a finger on you, unless you say so," said Mickey
promptly.
"And you'd stay a whole day?" she asked anxiously.
"Sure!" cried Mickey.
"An' if I was afraid you'd bring me back?" she went on.
"Sure! Right away!" he promised.
"An' they wouldn't anybody 'get' me there?"
"'Way out there 'mong the clover?" scoffed Mickey. "Why it's _here_
they'll '_get_' you if they are going to. Nobody out there _wants_ you,
but me."
"Mickey, when will you take me?" she asked eagerly.
"Before so very long," promised Mickey. "You needn't be surprised to hear
me coming with the nice lady to see you any day now, and to be wrapped in
a sheet, and put in a big car, and just scooted right out to the very
place that God made especial for little girls. To-night we put in another
blesses, Lily. We'll pray, 'Bless the nice lady who sent our supper,'
won't we?"
"Yes Mickey, and 'fore you came I didn't want any supper at all, and now I
_do_," said Peaches.
"You were too warm honey," said Mickey. "We'll just fix this old hot city.
We'll run right away from it. See? Now we'll have the grandest supper we
ever had."
Mickey brought water, plates, and forks, and opened the basket. Peaches
bolstered with her pillows cried out and marvelled. There was a quart
bottle of milk wrapped in a wet cloth. There was a big loaf of crusty
brown country bread. There was a small blue bowl of yellow butter, a
square of honey even yellower, a box of strawberries, and some powdered
sugar, and a little heap of sliced, cold boiled ham. Mickey surveyed the
table.
"Now Miss Chicken, here's how!" he warned. "I found you all warm and
feverish. If you load up with this, you'll be sick sure. You get a cup of
milk, a slice of bread and butter, some berries and a teeny piece of meat.
We can live from this a week, if the heat doesn't spoil it."
"You fix me," said Peaches.
Then they had such a supper as they neither one ever had known, during
which Mickey explained wheat fields and bread, bees and honey, cows and
clover, pigs and ham, as he understood them. Peaches repeated her lesson
and her prayers and then as had become her custom, demanded that Mickey
write his last verse on the slate, so she might learn and copy it on the
morrow. She was asleep before he finished. Mickey walked softly, cleared
the table, placed it before the window, and taking from his pocket an
envelope Mr. Bruce had given him drew out a sheet of folded paper on which
he wrote long and laboriously, then locking Peaches in, he slipped down to
the mail-box and posted this letter:
DEAR MISTER CARREL:
_I saw in papers I sold how you put different legs on a dog. I have a
little white flowersy-girl that hasn't ever walked. It's her back. A Nurse
Lady told me at the "Star of Hope" how you came there sometimes, and the
next time you come, I guess I will let you see my little girl; and maybe
I'll have you fix her back. When you see her you will know that to fix her
back would be the biggest thing you ever did or ever could do. I got a job
that I can pay her way and mine, and save two dollars a week for you. I
couldn't pay all at once, but I could pay steady; and if you'd lose all
you have in any way, it would come in real handy to have that much skating
in steady as the clock every week for as long as you say, and soon as I
can, I'll make it more. I'd give all I got, or ever can get, to cure
Lily's back, and because you fixed the dog, I'd like you to fix her. I do
hope you will come soon, but of course I don't wish anybody else would get
sick so you'd have to. You can ask if I am square of Mr. Douglas Bruce,
Iriquois Building, Multiopolis, Indiana, or of Mr. Chaffner, editor of
the_ Herald, _whose papers I've sold since I was big enough._
MICHAEL O'HALLORAN.
CHAPTER XII
_Feminine Reasoning_
With vigour renewed by a night of rest Leslie began her second day at
Atwater Cabin. She had so many and such willing helpers that before noon
she could find nothing more to do. After lunch she felt a desire to
explore her new world. Choosing the shady side, she followed the road
toward the club house, but one thought in her mind: she must return in
time to take the car and meet Douglas Bruce as she had promised.
She felt elated that she had so planned her summer as to spend it with her
father, while of course it was going to be delightful to have her lover
with her. So going she came to a most attractive lane that led from the
road between tilled fields, back to a wood on one side, and open pasture
on the other. Faintly she heard the shouts of children, and yielding to
sudden impulse she turned and followed the grassy path. A few more steps,
then she stopped in surprise. An automobile was standing on the bank of a
brook. On an Indian blanket under a tree sat a woman of fine appearance
holding a book, but watching with smiling face the line of the water,
which spread in a wide pool above a rudely constructed dam, overflowing it
in a small waterfall.
On either bank lay one of the Minturn boys, muddy and damp, trying with
his hands to catch something in the water. Below the dam, in a blue
balbriggan bathing suit, stood James Minturn, his hands filled with a big
piece of sod which he bent and applied to a leak. Leslie untied the
ribbons of her sunshade and rumpling her hair to the light breeze came
forward laughing.
"Well Mr. Minturn!" she cried. "What is going to become of the taxpayers
of Multiopolis while their champion builds a sod dam?"
Whether the flush on James Minturn's face as he turned to her was
exertion, embarrassment, or unpleasant memory Leslie could not decide; but
she remembered, after her impulsive greeting, that she had been with his
wife in that early morning meeting the day of the trip to the swamp. She
thought of many things as she went forward. James Minturn held out his
muddy hands as he said laughingly: "You see I'm not in condition for our
customary greeting."
"Surely!" cried Leslie. "It is going to wash off, isn't it? If from you,
why not from me?"
"Of course if you want to play!" he said.
"Playing? You? Honestly?" queried Leslie.
"Honestly playing," answered the man. "The 'honestest' playing in all the
world; not the political game, not the money game, not anything called
manly sport, just a day off with my boys, being a boy again. Heavens
Leslie, I'm wild about it. I could scarcely sleep last night for eagerness
to get started. But let me make you acquainted with my family. My sister,
Mrs. Winslow, a friend of mine, Miss Leslie Winton; my sons' tutor, Mr.
Tower; my little brother, William Minturn; my boys, Junior and Malcolm."
"Anyway, we can shake hands," said Leslie to Mrs. Winslow. "The habit is
so ingrained I am scandalized on meeting people if I'm forced to neglect
it."
"Will you share my blanket?" asked Mrs. Winslow.
"Thanks! Yes, for a little time," said Leslie. "I am greatly interested in
what is going on here."
"So am I," said Mrs. Winslow. "We are engaged in the evolution of an idea.
A real 'Do-the-boy's-hall.'"
"It seems to be doing them good," commented Leslie.
"Never mind the boys," said Mr. Minturn. "I object to such small men
monopolizing your attention. Look at the 'good' this is doing me. And
would you please tell me why you are here, instead of disporting yourself
at, say Lenox?"
"How funny!" laughed Leslie. "I am out in search of amusement, and I'm
finding it. I think I'm perhaps a mile from our home for the summer."
"You amaze me!" cried Mr. Minturn. "I saw Douglas this morning, and told
him where I was coming, but he never said a word."
"He didn't know one to say on this subject," explained Leslie. "You see I
rented a cabin over at Atwater and had my plans made before I told even
father what a delightful thing was in store for him."
"But how did it happen?"
"Through my seeing how desperately busy Daddy and Douglas have been all
spring, Daddy especially," replied Leslie. "Douglas is bad enough, but
father's just obsessed, so much so that I think he's carrying double."
"I know he is," said Mr. Minturn. "And so you made a plan to allow him to
proceed with his work all day and then have the delightful ride, fishing
and swimming in Atwater morning and evening. How wonderful! And of course
Douglas will be there also?"
"Of course," agreed Leslie. "At least he shall have an invitation. I'm
going to surprise him with it this very evening. How do you think he'll
like it?"
"I think he will be so overjoyed he won't know how to express himself,"
said James Minturn. "But isn't it going to be lonely for you? Won't you
miss your friends, your frocks, and your usual summer round?"
"You forget," said Leslie. "My friends and my frocks always have been for
winter. All my life I have summered with father."
"How will you amuse yourself?" he asked.
"It will take some time each day to plan what to do the next that will
bring most refreshment and joy; I often will be compelled to drive in of
mornings with orders for my house-keeping, and when other things are
exhausted, I am going to make an especial study of wild-bird music."
"That is an attractive subject," said Mr. Minturn. "Have you really made
any progress?"
"Little more than verifying a few songs already recorded," replied Leslie.
"I hear smatterings and snatches, but they are elusive, while I'm not
always sure of the identity of the bird. But the subject is thrillingly
tempting."
"It surely is," conceded Mr. Minturn. "I could see that Nellie was alert
the instant you mentioned it. Come over here to the shade and tell me how
far you have gone. You see I've undertaken the boys' education. Malcolm
inherits his mother's musical ability to a wonderful degree. It is
possible that he could be started on this, and so begin his work while he
thinks he's playing."
Leslie walked to the spot indicated, far enough away that conversation
would not interrupt Mrs. Winslow's reading, and near enough to watch the
boys; she and Mr. Minturn sat on the grass and talked.
"It might be the very thing," said Leslie. "Whatever gives even a faint
hope of attracting a boy to an educational subject is worth testing."
"One thing I missed, I always have regretted," said Mr. Minturn, "I never
had educated musical comprehension. Nellie performed and sang so well, and
in my soul I knew what I could understand and liked in music she scorned.
Sometimes I thought if I had known only enough to appreciate the right
thing at the right time, it might have formed a slender tie between us; so
I want the boys both to recognize good music when they hear it; but they
have so much to learn all at once, poor little chaps, I scarcely see where
to begin, and in a musical way, I don't even know how to begin. Tell me
about the birds, Leslie. Just what is it you are studying?"
"The strains of our famous composers that are lifted bodily for measures
at a time, from the song of a bird or indisputably based upon it,"
answered Leslie.
"Did you and Nellie have any success?"
"Indeed yes! We had the royal luck to hear exactly the song I had hoped;
and besides we talked of many things and Nellie settled her future course
in her mind. When she went into the swamp alone and came out with an
armload of lavender fringed orchids she meant to carry to Elizabeth, and
her heart firmly resolved to begin a new life with you, she told me she
felt like flying; that never had she been so happy."
Leslie paused, glancing at James Minturn. He seemed puzzled: "I don't
understand. But nothing matters now. Tell me about the birds," he said.
"And it is what you admit you don't understand that I must tell you of,"
said Leslie. "I've been afraid, horribly afraid you didn't understand, and
that you took some course you wouldn't have taken if you did. What
happened in the swamp was all my fault!"
"The birds, Leslie, tell me of the birds," commanded James Minturn. "You
can't possibly know what occurred that separated Nellie and me."
"No, I don't know your side of it; but I do know hers, and I don't think
you do," persisted Leslie. "Now if you would be big enough to let me tell
you how it was with her that day, and what she said to me, your mind would
be perfectly at rest as to the course you have taken."
"My mind is 'perfectly at rest now as to the course I have taken,'" said
Mr. Minturn. "I realize that a man should meet life as it comes to him. I
endured mine in sweating humiliation for years, and I would have gone on
to the end, if it had been a question of me only, but when the girl was
sacrificed and the boys in a fair way to meet a worse fate than hers, the
question no longer hinged on me. You have seen my sons during their
mother's regime, when they were children of wealth in the care of
servants; look at them now and dare to tell me that they are not greatly
improved."
"Surely they are!" said Leslie. "You did right to rescue them from their
environment; all the fault that lies with you so far is, that you did not
do from the start what you are now doing. The thing that haunts me is
this, Mr. Minturn, and I must get it out of my mind before I can sleep
soundly again--you will let me tell you--you won't think me meddling in
what must be dreadful heartache? Oh you won't will you?"
"No, I won't," said Mr. Minturn, "but it is prolonging heartache to
discuss this matter, and wasting time better used in the building of a sod
dam--indeed Leslie, tell me about the birds."
"I will, if you'll answer one question," said Leslie.
"Dangerous, but I'll risk it," replied Mr. Minturn.
"I must ask two or three minor ones to reach the real one," explained the
girl.
"Oh Leslie," laughed Mr. Minturn. "I didn't think you were so like the
average woman."
"A large number of men are finding 'the average woman' quite delightful,"
said Leslie. "Men respect a masculine, well-balanced, argumentative woman,
but every time they love and marry the impulsive, changeable,
companionable one."
"Provided she be endowed with truth, character, and common mother instinct
enough to protect her young--yes--I grant it, and glory in it," said Mr.
Minturn. "I can furnish logic for one family, and most men I know feel
qualified to do the same."
"Surely!" agreed Leslie. "You were waiting for Nellie the night she came
from the tamarack swamp with me, and she told me you had a little box, and
that with its contents you had threatened to 'freeze her soul,' if she had
a soul. I'll be logical and fair, and ask but the _one_ question I first
stipulated. Here it is: did you wait until you made sure she had a soul,
worthy of your consideration, before you froze it?"
James Minturn's laugh was ugly to hear.
"My dear girl," he said. "I made sure she had _not_ three years ago."
"And I made equally sure that she had," said Leslie, "in the tamarack
swamp when she wrestled as Jacob at Peniel against her birth, her
environment, her wealth, and triumphed over all of them for you and her
sons. I can't go on with my own plan for personal happiness, until I know
for sure if you perfectly understand that she came to you that night to
confess to you her faults, errors, mistakes, sins, if need be, and ask you
to take the head of your household, and to help her fashion each hour of
her life anew. Did she have a chance to tell you all this?"
"No," said Mr. Minturn. "But it would have made _no difference,_ if she
had. It came too late."
"You have not the right to say that to any living, suffering human being!"
protested Leslie.
"I have a perfect right to say it to her," said Mr. Minturn. "A right that
would be justified in any court in the world, either of lawyers or
people."
"Then thank God, Nellie gets her trial higher. He will understand, and
forgive her."
"You don't know what she did," said Mr. Minturn. "What she stood before me
and the officers of the law, and admitted she did."
"I don't care what she did! There were men forgiven on the cross; because
they sincerely repented, God had mercy on them, so He will on her, and
what's more, He won't have any on _you_, unless you follow His example and
forgive when you are asked, by a woman who is as deeply repentant as she
was."
"Her repentance comes too late," said Mr. Minturn with finality. "Her
error is _not reparable_."
"There is no such thing as true repentance being too late," insisted
Leslie. "You are distinctly commanded to forgive; you have got to do it!
There is no error that is reparable. Since you hint tragedy, I will
concede it. If she had been directly responsible for the death of her
child, it was a mistake, criminal carelessness, but not a thing purposely
planned; so she could atone for it by doing her best for you and the
boys."
"Any mother who once did the things she did is not fit to be trusted
again!"
"What nonsense! James Minturn, you amaze me!" said Leslie. "That is a
little too cold masculine logic. That is taking from the whole human race
the power to repent of and repair a mistake."
"There are some mistakes that cannot be repaired!"
"I grant it," said Leslie. "There are! _You are making one right now!_"
"That's the most strictly feminine utterance I ever heard," said Mr.
Minturn, with a short laugh.
"Thank you," retorted Leslie. "The compliment is high, but I accept it. I
ask nothing better at the hands of fate than to be the most feminine of
women. And I've told you what I feel forced to. You can now go on with
your plans, knowing they are exactly what she had mapped out, hastily, but
surely. She said to me that she must build from the foundations, which
meant a new home."
"You are fatuously mistaken!" said Mr. Minturn.
"She said to me," reiterated Leslie forcefully, "that for ten years she
had done exactly what she pleased, lived only for her own pleasure, now
she would do as _you_ dictated for a like time, live your way--I never was
farther from a mistake in my life. If you think it doesn't take courage to
tell you this, and if you think I enjoy it, and if you think I don't wish
I were a mile away----"
"I still maintain I know the lady better than you do," said Mr. Minturn.
"But you are wonderful Leslie, and I always shall respect and honour you
for your effort in our behalf. It does credit to your head and heart. I
envy Douglas Bruce. If ever an hour of trial comes to you, I would feel
honoured for a chance to prove to you how much I appreciate----"
"Don't talk like that!" wailed Leslie. "It's all a failure if you do!
Promise me that you will _think this over_. Let me send you the note
Nellie wrote me before she went away. Won't you try to imagine what she is
suffering to-day, in the change from what she went to you hoping, and what
she received at your hands?"
"Let me see," said James Minturn. "At this hour she is probably enduring
the pangs of wearing the most tasteful afternoon gown on the veranda of
whatever summer resort suits her variable fancy, also the discomfiture of
the woman she induced to bid high and is now winning from at bridge. I am
particularly intimate with her forms of suffering; you see I judge them by
my own and my children's during the past years."
"Then you think I'm not sincere?" asked Leslie.
"Surely, my dear girl!" said Mr. Minturn. "With all my heart I believe
you! I know you are loyal to her, and to me! It isn't _you_ I disbelieve,
child, it is my wife."
"But I've told you over and over that she's changed."
"And I refuse to believe in her power to undergo the genuine and permanent
change that would make her an influence for good with her sons, or
anything but an uncontrollable element in my home," said Mr. Minturn. "Why
Leslie, if I were to hunt her up and ask her to come to my house, do you
think she would do it?"
"I know she would be most happy," said Leslie.
"Small plain rooms, wait on herself, children over the house and lawn at
all times--Nellie Minturn? You amuse me!" he said.
"There's no amusement in it for me, it is pitiful tragedy," said Leslie.
"She is willing, she has offered to change, you are denying her the
opportunity."
"You don't think deeply enough!" said the man. "Suppose, knowing her as I
do, I agreed to her coming to my house. Suppose I filled it with servants
to wait on her, and ruin and make snobs of the boys; it could only result
in a fiasco all around, and bring me again to the awful thing I have been
through once, in forcing a separation. The present is too good for the
boys, and now they are my first consideration."
"So I see," said Leslie. "Nellie isn't getting a particle and she _is_
their mother, and once she really awakened to the situation, she was
hungry to mother them, and to take her place in their hearts. I don't know
where she is, but feeling as she did when we parted, I know she's not at
any summer resort playing bridge at this minute."
"You are a friend worth having, Leslie; I congratulate my wife on so
staunch an advocate," said James Minturn. "And I'll promise you this: I'll
go back to the hateful subject, just when I felt I was free from it. I'll
think on both sides, and I'll weigh all you've said. If I see a
glimmering, I will do this much--I will locate her, and learn how genuine
was the change you witnessed, and I rather think I'll manage for you to
see also. Will that satisfy you?"
"That will make me radiant, because the change I witnessed was genuine. I
know that wherever Nellie is to-day and whatever she is doing, she is
still firm as when she left me in her desire for reparation toward you and
her sons. Please think fast, and find her quickly."
"Leslie, you're incorrigible! Go bring Douglas to his surprise. He has a
right to be happy."
"So have you," insisted Leslie. "More than he, because you have had such
deep sorrow. Good-bye."
Then Leslie took leave of the others, returned to the cabin, and hurried
to her room to dress for her trip to bring her lover. Douglas Bruce was
waiting when she stopped at the Iriquois and his greeting was joyous. Mr.
Winton was cordial, but Douglas noticed that he seemed tired and worried,
and inquired if he were working unusually hard. He replied that he was,
and beginning to feel the heat a little.
"Then we will drive to the country before dinner to cool off," said
Leslie, seeing her opportunity.
Both men agreed that would be enjoyable. After a few minutes of casual
talk they relaxed while making smooth passage over city streets and the
almost equally level highways of the country. At the end of half an hour
Douglas sat upright, looking around him.
"I don't recognize this," he said. "Have we been here before, Leslie?"
"I think not," she answered. "I don't know why. It is one of my best loved
drives. Always before we have taken the road to the club house, or some of
its branches."
They began a gentle ascent, when directly across their way stretched the
blue water of a lake.
"Is here where we take the plunge?" inquired Douglas.
"No indeed!" answered Leslie. "Here we speed until we gather such momentum
that we shoot across the water and alight on the opposite bank without
stopping. Make your landing neatly, Rogers!"
"Why have we never been here before?" marvelled Douglas. "I don't remember
any other road one-half so inviting. Just look ahead here! See what a
beautiful picture!" He indicated a vine of creeping blackberry spreading
over gold sand, its rough, deeply serrated leaves of most artistic
cutting, with tufts of snowy bloom surrounding dark-tipped stamens in
their centres.
"Isn't it!" answered Mr. Winton. "You know what Whitman said of it?"
"I'm not so well read in Whitman as you are."
"Which is your distinct loss," said Mr. Winton. "It was he who wrote, 'A
running blackberry would adorn the parlours of Heaven.'"
"And so it would!" exclaimed Douglas. "What a frieze that would make for a
dining-room! Have you ever seen it used?"
"Never," answered Leslie, "or many other of our most exquisite forms of
wild growth."
"What beautiful country!" Douglas commented a minute later as the car sped
from the swamp, ran uphill, and down a valley between stretches of tilled
farm land on either side, sloping back to the lakes now growing distant,
then creeping up a gradual incline until Atwater flashed into sight.
"Man! That's fine!" he said, rising in the car to better admire the view,
at which Leslie signalled the driver to run slower. "I don't remember that
I ever saw anything quite so attractive as this. And if ever water invited
a swimmer--that white sand bed seems to extend as far into the lake as you
can see. Jove! Wasn't that a black bass under that thorn bush?"
Leslie's eyes were shining while her laugh was as joyous as any of the
birds. He need not say more. There was a bathing suit in his room; in ten
minutes he could be cleaving the water to the opposite shore and have time
to return before dinner. The car sped down where the road ran level with
the water. A flock of waders arose and circled the lake. On the right was
the orchard, the newly made garden, the tiny cabin with green lawn,
hammocks swinging between trees, Indian blankets spread, and the odour of
cooking food in the air. The car stopped, Douglas sprang out and offered
his hand as he saw Leslie intended descending. She took the hand and kept
it in her left. With her right she included woods, water, orchard and
cabin.
"These are my surprise for you," she said. "I am going to live here this
summer, and keep house for you and Dad while you run and reform the world.
Welcome home, Douglas!"
He slowly looked around, then at Mr. Winton.
"Do you believe her?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes indeed! Leslie has the faculty of making good. And I'm one day ahead
of you. She tried this on me last night. Hurry into your bathing suit;
we'll swim before dinner, and then we'll fish. It was great going in this
morning! I'm sure you'll enjoy it!"
"Enjoy it!" cried Douglas. "Here is where the paucity of our language is
made manifest."
Too happy herself for the right word, Leslie showed Douglas to his room,
with its white bed, and row of hooks, on one of which hung the bathing
suit; then she went to put on her own, and they hurried to the lake.
"You are happy here, Leslie?" asked Douglas.
"Never in my life have I been so happy as I am this moment," said Leslie,
skifting the clear water with her hands while she waited for her father
before starting the swim to the opposite shore. "I've got the most joyous
thing to tell you."
"Go on and tell, 'Bearer of Morning,'" he said. "I am so delighted I'm
maudlin."
"Right over there, on the road to the club house, while 'seeking new
worlds to conquer' this afternoon, I ran into James Minturn wearing a
bathing suit, to his knees in mud and water, building a sod dam for his
boys."
"You did?" cried Douglas.
"I did!" said Leslie. "Here's the picture: a beautiful winding stream, big
trees like these on the banks, shade and flowers, birds, and air a-plenty,
a fine appearing woman he introduced as his sister, a Minturn boy catching
fish with his bare hands on either bank, the brother Minturn must have
adopted legally, since he gave him his name----"
"He did," interrupted Douglas. "He told me so----"
"I was sure of it," said Leslie. "And an interesting young man, a tutor,
bringing up more sod; the boys acted quite like any other agreeably
engaged children--but Minturn himself, looking like a man I never saw
before, down in the sand and water building a sod dam--a sod dam I'm
telling you----"
"I notice what you are telling me," cried Douglas. "It is duly impressing
me. 'Dam' is all I can think of."
"It's no wonder!" exclaimed Leslie.
"What did he say to you?" queried Douglas.
"It wasn't necessary for him to say anything," said Leslie. "I could see.
He is making over his boys and in order to do it sympathetically, and win
their confidence and love, he is being a boy himself again. He has the
little chaps under control now. There are love and admiration in their
tones when they speak to him, while they _obey_ him. Think of it!"
"It is something worth thinking of," said Douglas. "He was driven to
action, but his methods must have been heroic; for they seem to have
worked."
"Yes, for him and the boys," said Leslie, "but they are not all his
family."
"The remainder of his family always has looked out for herself to the
exclusion of everything else in life, you have told me; I imagine she is
still doing it with wonderful success," hazarded Douglas.
"It amazes me how men can be so unfeeling."
"So you talked to him about her?"
"I surely did!" asserted Leslie.
"And I'll wager you wasted words," said Douglas.
"Not one!" cried the girl. "He will remember each one I spoke. If I don't
hear of him taking some action soon, I'll find another occasion, and try
again. He shall divide the joy of remaking those boys with their mother."
"She will respectfully--I mean disdainfully, decline!"
"You don't believe she was in earnest in what she said to me then?" asked
the girl.
"I am quite sure she was," he answered, "but a few days of her former life
with her old friends will take her back to her previous ways with greater
abandon than ever. You mark my words."
"Bother your words!" cried Leslie emphatically. "I tell you Douglas, I
went through the fire with her. I watched her soul come out white. Promise
me that if ever he talks to you, you won't say anything against her."
"It would be a temptation," he said. "Minturn is a different man."
"So is she a different woman! Come on Dad, we are waiting for you," called
Leslie. "What kept you so?"
"A paper fell from my pocket, so I picked it up and in glancing at it I
became interested in a thought that hadn't occurred to me before, and I
forgot. You must forgive your old Daddy; his hands are about full these
days. Between my job for the city, and my own affairs, and those of a
friend, I have all I can carry. Now let me forget business. I call this
great of the girl. And one of the biggest appeals to me is the bill of
fare. I had a dinner for a king last night. What have we to-night?"
"But won't anticipation spoil it?" she asked.
"Not a particle," he declared.
"It's the fish we caught last night, baked potatoes, cress salad from
Minturn's brook, strawberries from Atwaters, cream from our rented cow,
real clover cream, Mrs. James says, and biscuit. That's all."
"Glory!" cried Mr. Winton. "Doesn't that thrill you? Let's head for the
tallest tamarack of the swamp and then have a feast."
On the opposite bank they rested a few minutes, then returned to dinner.
Afterward, with Rogers rowing for Mr. Winton, and Leslie for Douglas, they
went bass fishing. When the boats passed on the far shore Leslie and
Douglas had three, and Mr. Winton five. This did not prove that he was the
better fisherman, only that he worked constantly; they lost much time in
conversation which interested them; but as they enjoyed what they had to
say more than the sport, while Leslie only wished them to take the fish
they would use, it was their affair. The girl soon returned to the
Minturns and secured a promise from Douglas that if Mr. Minturn talked
with him, at least he would say nothing to discourage his friend about the
sincerity of his wife's motives. Leslie's thoughts then turned to the
surprise Douglas had mentioned.
"Oh, that pretty girl?" he inquired casually.
"Yes, Lily," she said. "Of course Mickey took you to see her! Is she
really a lovable child, and attractive? Could you get any idea of what is
her trouble?"
Douglas carefully reeled while looking at Leslie with a speculative smile.
"You refuse to consider an attractive young lady of greater beauty than I
have previously seen?" he queried.
"Absolutely! Don't waste time on it," she said.
"You'll have to begin again and ask me one at a time," he laughed. "What
was your first?"
"Is she really a lovable child?" repeated Leslie.
"She most certainly is," said Douglas. "I could love her dearly. It's
plain that Mickey adores her. Why when a boy gives up trips to the
country, the chance to pick up good money, in order to stand over, wash,
and cook for a little sick girl, what is the answer?"
"The one you have given--that he adores her," conceded Leslie. "The next
was, 'Is she attractive?'"
"Wonderfully!" cried Douglas. "And what she would be in health with flesh
to cover her bones and colour on her lips and cheeks is now only dimly
foreshadowed."
"She must have her chance," said Leslie. "I was thinking of her to-day.
I'll go to see her at once and bring her here. I will get the best surgeon
in Multiopolis to examine her and a nurse if need be; then Mickey can come
out with you."
"Would you really, Leslie?" asked Douglas.
"But why not?" cried she. "That's one of the things worth while in the
world."
"I'd love to go halvers with you," proposed Douglas. "Let's do it! When
will you go to see her?"
"In a few days," said Leslie. "The last one was, 'Could you get any idea
of what is the trouble?'"
"Very little," said Douglas. "She can sit up and move her hands. He is
teaching her to read and write. She had her lesson very creditably copied
out on her slate. She practises in his absence on poems Mickey makes."
"Poems?"
"Doggerel," explained Douglas. "Four lines at a time. Some of it is
pathetic, some of it is witty, some of it presages possibilities. He may
make a poet. She requires a verse each evening, so he recites it, then
writes it out, and she uses it for copy the next day. The finished product
is to have a sky-blue cover and be decorated either with an English
sparrow, the only bird she has seen, or a cow. She likes milk, and the
pictures of cows give her an idea that she can handle them like her
doll----"
"Oh Douglas!" protested Leslie.
"I believe she thinks a whole herd of cows could be kept on her bed, while
she finds them quite suitable to decorate Mickey's volume," said Douglas.
"Why, hasn't she seen anything at all?"
"She has been on the street twice in her life that she knows of," answered
Douglas. "It will be kind of you to take her, and cure her if it can be
done, but you'll have to consult Mickey. She is his find, so he claims
her, belligerently, I might warn you!"
"Claims her! _He has her?_" marvelled Leslie.
"Surely! In his room! On his bed! Taking care of her himself, and doing a
mighty fine job of it! Best she ever had I am quite sure," said Douglas.
"But Douglas!" cried Leslie in amazement.
"'But me no buts,' my lady!" warned Douglas. "I know what you would say.
Save it! You can't do anything that way. Mickey is right. She _is_ his. He
found her in her last extremity, in rags, on the floor in a dark corner of
an attic. He carried her home in that condition, to a clean bed his mother
left him. Since, he has been her gallant little knight, lying on the floor
on his winter bedding, feeding her first and most, not a thought for
himself. God, Leslie! I don't stand for anything coming between Mickey and
his child, his 'family' he calls her. He's the biggest small specimen I
ever have seen. I'll fight his cause in any court in the country, if his
right to her is questioned, as it will be the minute she is taken to a
surgeon or a hospital."
"How old is she?" asked Leslie.
"Neither of them knows. About ten, I should think."
"How has he managed to keep her hidden this long?"
"He lives in an attic. The first woman he tried to get help from started
the Home question, and frightened him; so he appealed to a nurse he met
through being connected with an accident; she gave him supplies,
instructions and made Lily gowns."
"But why didn't she----?" began Leslie.
"She may have thought the child was his sister," said Douglas. "She's the
loveliest little thing, Leslie!"
"Very little?" asked Leslie.
"Tiny is the word," said Douglas. "It's the prettiest sight I ever saw to
watch him wait on her, and to see her big, starved, scared eyes follow him
with adoring trust."
"Adoration on both sides, then," laughed Leslie.
"You imply I'm selecting too big words," said Douglas. "Wait till you see
her, and see them together."
"It's a problem!" said Leslie.
"Yes, I admit that!" conceded Douglas, "but it isn't _your_ problem."
"But they can't go on that way!" cried Leslie.
"I grant that," said Douglas. "All I stipulate is that Mickey shall be
left to plan their lives himself, and in a way that makes him happy."
"That's only fair to him!" said Leslie.
"Now you are grasping and assimilating the situation properly," commented
Douglas.
When they returned to the cabin they found Mr. Winton stretched in a
hammock smoking. Douglas took a blanket and Leslie a cushion on the steps,
while all of them watched the moon pass slowly across Atwater.
"How are you progressing with the sinners of Multiopolis?" asked Mr.
Winton of Douglas.
"Fine!" he answered. "I've found what I think will turn out to be a big
defalcation. Somebody drops out in disgrace with probably a penitentiary
sentence."
"Oh Douglas! How can you?" cried Leslie.
"How can a man live in luxury when he is stealing other people's money to
pay the bills?" he retorted.
"Yes I know, but Douglas, I wish you would buy this place and plow corn,
or fish for a living."
"Sometimes I have an inkling that before I finish with this I shall wish
so too," replied he.
"What do you think, Daddy?" asked Leslie.
"I think the 'way of the transgressor is hard,' and that as always he pays
in the end. Go ahead son, but let me know before you reach my office or
any of my men. I hope I have my department in perfect order, but sometimes
a man gets a surprise."
"Of course!" agreed Douglas. "Look at that water, will you? Just beyond
that ragged old sycamore! That fellow must have been a whale. Isn't this
great?"
"The best of life," said Mr. Winton, stooping to kiss Leslie as he said
good-night to both.
CHAPTER XIII
_A Safe Proposition_
When Mickey posted his letter, in deep thought he slowly walked home. That
night his eyes closed with a feeling of relief. He was certain that when
Peter and his wife and children talked over the plan he had suggested they
would be anxious to have such a nice girl as Lily in their home for a
week. He even went so far as the vague thought that if they kept her until
fall, they never would be able to give her up, and possibly she could
remain with them until he could learn whether her back could be cured, and
make arrangements suitable for her. In his heart he felt sure that Mr.
Bruce or Miss Leslie would help him take care of her, but he had strong
objections to them. He thought the country with its clean air, birds,
flowers and quiet the best place for her; if he allowed them to take her,
she would be among luxuries which would make all he could do
unappreciated.
"She wasn't born to things like that; what's the use to spoil her with
them?" he argued. "Course they haven't spoiled Miss Leslie, but she wasn't
a poor kid to start on, and she has a father to take care of her, and Mr.
Bruce. Lily has only me and I'm going to manage my family myself. Pretty
soon those nice folks will come, and if she likes them, maybe I'll let
them take her 'til it's cooler."
Mickey had thought they would come soon, but he had not supposed it would
be the following day. He went downtown early, spent some time drilling his
protege in the paper business, and had the office ready when Douglas Bruce
arrived an hour late. During that hour, Mickey's call came. He made an
appointment to meet Mr. and Mrs. Peter Harding at Marsh & Jordan's at four
o'clock.
"Peter must have wanted to see her so bad he quit plowing to come,"
commented Mickey, as he hung up the receiver. "He couldn't have finished
that field last night! They're just crazy to see Lily, and when they do,
they'll be worse yet; but of course they wouldn't want to take her from
me, 'cause they got three of their own. I guess Peter is the safest
proposition I know. Course he wouldn't ever put a little flowersy-girl in
any old Orphings' Home. Sure he wouldn't! He wouldn't put his own there,
course he wouldn't mine!"
"Mickey, what do you think?" asked Douglas as he entered. "I've moved to
the country!"
Mickey stared. Then came his slow comment: "Gee! The cows an' the clover
gets all of us!"
"I can beat that," said Douglas. "I'm going to live beside a lake where I
can swim every night and morning, and catch big bass, and live on
strawberries from the vines and cream straight from the cow----"
"I thought you'd get to the cow before long."
"And you are invited to go out with me as often as you want to, and you
may arrange to have Lily out too! Won't that be fine?"
Mickey hesitated while his eyes grew speculative, before he answered with
his ever ready: "Sure!"
"Miss Winton made a plan for her father and me," explained Douglas. "She
knew we would lose our vacations this summer, so she took an old cabin on
Atwater, and moved out. We are to go back and forth each morning and
evening. I never was at the lake before, but it's not far from the club
house and it's beautiful. I think most of all I shall enjoy the swimming
and fishing."
"I haven't had experience with water enough to swim in," said Mickey. "A
tub has been my limit. You'll have a fine time all right, and thank you
for asking me. I think Miss Winton is great. Ain't it funny how many fine
folks there are in the world? 'Most every one I meet is too nice for any
use; but I don't know any Swell Dames, my people are just common folks."
"You wouldn't call Miss Winton a 'Swell Dame,' then?"
"Well I should say nix!" cried Mickey. "You wouldn't catch her motoring
away to a party and leaving her baby to be slapped and shook out of its
breath by a mad nurselady, 'cause she left it herself where the sun hurt
its eyes. She wouldn't put a little girl that couldn't walk in any
Orphings' Home where no telling what might happen to her! She'd fix her a
Precious Child and take her for a ride in her car and be careful with
her."
"Are you quite sure about that Mickey?"
"Surest thing you know," said Mickey emphatically. "Why look her straight
in the eyes, and you can tell. I saw her coming away down the street, and
the minute I got my peepers on her I picked her for a winner. I guess you
did too."
"I certainly did," said Douglas. "But it is most important that I be
perfectly sure, so I should like to have your approval of my choice."
"I guess you're kidding now," ventured Mickey.
"No, I'm in earnest," said Douglas Bruce. "You see Mickey, as I have said
before, your education and mine have been different, but yours is equally
valuable."
"What shall I do now? 'Scuse me, I mean--what do I mean?" asked Mickey.
"To wait until I'm ready for you," suggested Douglas.
"Sure!" conceded Mickey. "It's because I'm used to hopping so lively on
the streets."
"Do you miss the streets?" inquired Douglas.
"Well not so much as I thought I would," said Mickey, "'sides in a way I'm
still on the job, but I guess I'll get Henry's boy so he can go it all
right. He seems to be doing fairly well; so does the old man."
"Have you got him in training too?" asked Douglas.
"Oh it's his mug," explained Mickey impatiently. "S'pose you do own a
grouch, what's the use of displaying it in your show window? Those things
are dangerous. They're contagious. Seeing a fellow on the street looking
like he'd never smile again, makes other folks think of their woes, so
pretty soon everybody gets sorry for themselves. I'd like to see the whole
world happy."
"Mickey, what makes _you_ so happy to-day?"
"I scent somepin' nice in the air," said Mickey. "I hear the rumble of the
joy wagon coming my way."
"You surely look it," declared Douglas. "It's a mighty fine thing to be
happy. I am especially thinking that, because it looks like this last
batch you brought me has a bad dose in it for a man I know. He won't be
happy when he sees his name in letters an inch high on the front page of
the _Herald_."
"No, he won't," agreed Mickey, his face dulling. "That _comes in my line_.
I've seen men forced to take it right on the cars. Open a paper, slide
down, turn white, shiver, then take a brace and try to sit up and look
like they didn't care, when you could see it was all up with them. Gee,
it's tough! I wish we were in other business."
"But what about the men who work hard for their money, not to mince
matters, that these men you are pitying steal?" asked Douglas.
"Yes, I know," said Mickey. "But there's a big bunch of taxpayers, so it
doesn't hit any _one_ so hard. It's tough on them, but honest, Mr. Bruce,
it ain't as tough to lose your coin as it is to lose your glad face. You
can earn more money or slide along without so much; but once you get the
slick, shamed look on your show window, you can't ever wash it off. Since
your face is what your friends know you by, it's an awful pity to spoil
it."
"That's so too, Mickey," laughed Bruce, "but keep this clearly in your
mind. _I'm not spoiling any one's face_. If any man loses his right to
look his neighbour frankly in the eye, from the job we're on, it is _his_
fault, not _ours_. If men have lived straight we can't find defalcations
in their books, can we?"
"Nope," agreed Mickey. "Just the same I wish we were plowing corn, 'stead
of looking for them. That plowing job is awful nice. I watched a man the
other day, the grandest big bunch of bone and muscle, driving a team it
took a gladiator to handle. First time I ever saw it done at close range
and it got me. He looked like a man you'd want to tie to and stick 'til
the war is over. If he ever has a case he is going to bring it to you. But
where he'll get a case out there ten miles from anybody, with the bluest
sky you ever saw over his head, and black fields under his feet, I can't
see. Yes, I wish we were plowing for corn 'stead of trouble."
"You little dunce," laughed Douglas. "We'd make a fortune plowing corn."
"What's the difference how much you make if something black keeps ki-yi-
ing at your heels 'bout how you make it?" asked Mickey.
"There's a good strong kick in my heels, and the 'ki-yi-ing' is for the
feet of the man I'm after."
"Yes, I know," said Mickey, "but 'fore we get through with this I just got
a hunch that you'll wish we had been plowing corn, too."
"What makes you so sure, Mickey?" said Douglas.
"Oh things I hear men say when I get the books keep me thinking," replied
Mickey.
"What things?" queried Douglas.
"Oh about who's going to get the axe next!" said Mickey.
"But what of that?" asked Douglas.
"Why it might be somebody you know!" he cried. "When you find these wrong
entries you can't tell who made them."
"I know that the man who made them deserves what he gets," said Douglas.
"Yes, I guess he does," agreed Mickey. "Well go on! But when I grow up I'm
going to plow corn."
"What about the poetry?" queried Douglas.
"They go together fine," explained Mickey. "When the book is finished, I'd
like clover on the cover better than the cow; but if Lily wants the live
stock it goes!"
"Of course," assented Douglas. "But when she sees a real cow she may
change her mind."
"Right in style! Ladies do it often," conceded Mickey. "I've seen them so
changeful they couldn't tell when they called a taxi where they wanted to
be taken." "Mickey, your observations on human nature would make a better
book than your poetry."
"Oh I don't know," said Mickey. "You see I ain't really got _at_ the
poetry job yet. I have to be educated a lot to do it right. What I do now
I wouldn't show to anybody else, it's just fooling for Lily. But I got an
address that gives me a look-in on the paper business if I ever want it. I
ain't got at the poetry yet, but I been on the human-nature job from the
start. When you go cold and hungry if you don't know human nature--why you
_know_ it, that's all!"
"You surely do," said Douglas. "Now let's hustle this forenoon, and then
you may have the remainder of the day. I am going fishing."
"Thank you," said Mickey, "I hope you get a bass as long as your arm, and
I hope the man you are chasing breaks his neck before you get him."
Mickey grinned at Douglas' laugh, and went racing about his work, then he
helped on his paper route until four, when he hurried to his meeting with
Nancy and Peter.
"When everybody is so nice if you give them any show at all, I can't
understand where the grouchers get their grouch," muttered Mickey, as he
hopped from one toe to the other and tried to select the car at the curb
which would be Peter's.
"Hey you!" presently called a voice from one of them. Mickey sent a keen
glance over a boy who had come up and entered the car.
"Straw you!" retorted Mickey, landing on the curb in a flying leap.
"Is your name Mickey?" inquired the boy.
"Yep. Is your father's name Peter?" asked Mickey.
"Yep. And mine is Peter too. So to avoid two Peters I am Junior. Come on
in 'til the folks come."
Formalities were over. Mickey laughed as he entered the car and
straightway began an investigation of its machinery. Now any boy is proud
to teach another something he wants to know and does not, so by the time
the car was thoroughly explained any listener would have thought them
acquaintances from birth.
"Hurry!" cried Junior when his parents came. "I want to get home with
Mickey. I want him to show me----"
"Don't you hurry your folks, Junior," said Mickey, "I'll show you all
right!"
"Well it's about time I was seeing something."
"Sure it is," agreed Mickey. "Come on with me here, and I'll show you what
real boys are!"
"Say father, I'm coming you know," cried Junior. "I'm tired poking in the
country. Just look what being in the city has made of Mickey."
"Yes, just look!" cried Mickey, waving both hands and bracing on feet wide
apart. "Do look! Your age or more, and about _half_ your beefsteak and
bone."
"But you got muscle. I bet I couldn't throw you!"
"I bet you couldn't either," retorted Mickey, "'cause I survived
Multiopolis by being Johnny _not_ on the spot! I've dodged for my life and
my living since I can remember. I'm champeen on that. But you come on with
me, and I'll get you a job and let you try yourself."
"I'm coming," said Junior. Then remembering he was not independent he
turned to his mother. "Can't I take a job and work here?"
Mrs. Harding braced herself and succumbed to habit. "That will be as your
father says."
Junior turned toward his father, doubt in his eye, to receive a shock.
There was not a trace of surprise or disapproval on the face of Peter.
"Now maybe that would be the best way in the world for you to help me
out," he said. "You see me through planting and harvest and then I'll
arrange to spare you, and you can see how you like it till fall. But you
are too young to give up school and I don't agree to interrupting your
education."
Mrs. Harding entered the car. "Now Mickey," she said as she distributed
parcels, "you sit up there with Peter and show him the way, and we will go
see if we want to undertake the care of your little girl for a week."
"Drop the anchor, furl the sail, right here," directed Mickey when they
reached Sunrise Alley. "You know I told you dearest lady, about how scared
my little girl is, having seen so few folks and not expecting you; so I'll
have to ask you to wait a few minutes 'til I go up and get her used to
your being here and then I'll have to sort of work her up to you one at a
time. I 'spect you can't hardly believe that there's anything in all the
world so small, and so white, that's lived to have the brains she has, and
yet hasn't seen the streets of this city but for a short ride on a street-
car twice in her life, and hasn't talked to half a dozen people. She may
take you for a bear, Peter; you will be quiet and easy, won't you?"
"Why Mickey," said Peter, "why of course, son!"
Mickey bounded up the stairs and swung wide his door. Again the awful heat
hit him in the face. He swallowed a mouthful, hastily shutting the door.
"It's hard on Lily," was his mental comment, "but I guess I'll just _save_
that for Mr. and Mrs. Peter. I think a few gulps of it will do them good;
it will show them better than talking why, once she's _out_ of it, she
shouldn't come back 'til cold weather at least, if at all. Yes I guess!"
"Most baked honey?" he asked, taking her hot hands.
"Mickey, 'tain't near six," she panted.
"No it's two hours early," said Mickey. "But you know Flowersy-girl, I'm
going to take _care_ of you. It's getting too hot for you. Don't you
remember what I told you last night?"
"'Bout laying on the grass an' the clover flowers?"
"Exactly yes!" said Mickey. "'Fore we melt let's roll up in this sheet and
go, Lily! What do you say?"
"Has--has the red-berry folks come?" she cried.
"They're downstairs, Lily. They're waiting."
Peaches began climbing into his arms.
"Mickey, Mickey-lovest, hold me tight," she panted. "Mickey, I'm scairt
just God-damned!"
"Wope! Wope lady! None of that!" cried Mickey aghast. "The place where
you're going there's a _nice little girl_ that never said such a word in
all her life, and if she did her mammy would wash the badness out of her
mouth with soap, just like I'll have to wash out yours, if you don't
watch. You can't go in the big car, being held tight by me, else you
promise cross your heart never, not never to say that again."
"Mickey, will soapin' take it out?" wailed Peaches.
"Well my mammy took it out of _me_ that way!"
"Mickey get the soap, an' wash, an' scour it all out now, so's I can't
ever. Mickey, quick before the nice lady comes that has flower fields, an'
red berries, an' honey 'lasses. Mickey, hurry!"
"Oh you fool little sweet kid," he half laughed, half sobbed. "You fool
little precious child-kid--I can't! There's a better way. I'll just put on
a kiss so tight that no bad swearin's will ever pop out past it. There,
like that! Now you won't ever say one 'fore the nice little girl, and when
I want you not to so bad, will you?"
"Not never Mickey! Not never, never, never!"
"The folks can't wait any longer," said Mickey. "Here quick, I'll wash
your face and comb you, and get a clean nightie on you, and your sweetest
ribbon."
"Then it's pink," declared Peaches, "an' Mickey, make me a pretty girl,
so's the nice lady will like me to drink her milk."
"Greedy!" said Mickey. "How can I make you pretty when the Lord didn't!"
"Ain't I pretty any at all?" queried Peaches.
"Mebby you would be if you'd fatten up a little," said Mickey judicially.
"Can't anybody be pretty that's got bones sticking out all over them."
"Mickey, is the girl where we are going pretty?"
"I don't know," said Mickey. "I haven't seen her. She's a fine little
girl, for she's at home taking care of her baby brother so's that her
mammy can come and see if you are _nice enough_ to go to her house and not
_spoil_ her children. See?"
Peaches nodded comprehendingly.
"Mickey, I won't again!" she insisted. "I said not never, never, never.
Didn't you _hear_ me?"
"Yes I heard you," said Mickey, applying the washcloth, slipping on a
fresh nightdress, brushing curls, and tying the ribbon with fingers
shaking with excitement and haste. "Yes I heard you, but that stuff seems
to come awful easy, Miss. You got to be careful no end. Now, I'm going to
bring them. You just smile at them, and when they ask you, tell them the
right answer _nice_. Will you honey? Will you _sure?_"
"Surest thing you know," quoted Peaches promptly.
"Aw-w-w-ah!" groaned Mickey. "That ain't right! Miss Leslie wouldn't ever
said that! You got that from me, too! I guess I better soap out my mouth
'fore I begin on you. 'Yes ma'am,' is the answer. Now you remember! I'll
just bring in the lady first."
"I want to see Peter first!" announced Peaches.
"Well if I ever!" cried Mickey. "Peter is a great big man, 'bout twice as
big as Mr. Bruce. You don't either! You want to see the nice lady first,
'cause it's up to _her_ to say if she'll take care of you. She may get mad
and not let you go at all, if you ask to see Peter _first_. You want to
see the nice lady first, don't you Lily?"
"Yes, if I got to, to see the cow. But I don't!" said Lily. "I want to see
Peter. I like Peter the _best_."
"Now you look here Miss Chicken, don't you start a tantrum!" cried Mickey.
"If you don't see this nice lady first and be pretty to her, I'll just go
down and tell them you _like_ lying here roasting, and they can go back to
their flower-fields and berries. See?"
Peaches drew a deep breath but her eyes were wilful. A wave of heat seemed
to envelop them.
"Sweat it out right now!" ordered Mickey. "When people do things for you
'cause they are sorry for you, it's up to you to be polite, to pay back
with manners at least. See?"
Peaches' smile was irresistible: "Mickey, I feel so p'lite! I'll see the
nice lady first."
"Now there's a real, sure-enough lady!"
Mickey stooped to kiss Peaches again, take a last look at the hair ribbon,
and straighten the sheet, then he ran; but he closed in the heat quickly
as he slipped through the doorway. A few seconds later with the Harding
family at his heels he again approached it. There he made his second
speech. He addressed it to Peter and Junior.
"'Cause she's so little and so scared, I guess the nice lady better go in
first, and make up with her. Then one at a time you can come, so so many
strangers won't upset her."
Peter assented heartily, but with a suffocating gesture removed his coat,
so Junior followed his example. Mickey cut short something about "extreme
heat" on the lips of Mrs. Harding by indicating the door, and opening it.
He quickly closed it after her, advancing to Peaches.
"Lily, this is the nice lady I was telling you of who has got the bird
singing and the flower-fields----" he began. Peaches drew back, her eyes
wide with wonder and excitement, but her mind followed Mickey's lead, for
she shocked his sense of propriety by adding: "and the good red berries."
But Mrs. Harding came from an environment where to have "good red
berries," spicy smoked ham, fat chickens and golden loaves constituted a
first test of efficiency. To have her red berries appreciated did not
offend her. If Peaches had said "the sweetest, biggest red berries in
Noble Country," the woman would have been delighted, because that was her
private opinion, but she was not so certain that corroboration was
unpleasant. She advanced, gazing at the child unconsciously gasping the
stifling air. She took one hurried glance at the room in its scrupulous
bareness, with waves of heat pouring in the open window, and bent over
Peaches.
"Won't you come out of this awful heat quickly, and let us carry you away
to a cool, shady place? Dear little girl, don't you want to come?" she
questioned.
"Is Mickey coming too?" asked Peaches.
"Of course Mickey is coming too!" said the lady.
"Will he hold me?"
"He will if you want him to," said Mrs. Harding, "but Peter is so much
bigger, it wouldn't tire him a mite."
Mickey shifted on his feet and gazed at Peaches; as her eyes sought his,
the message he telegraphed her was so plain that she caught it right.
"Mickey is just awful strong," she said. "I'll go if he'll hold me. But I
want to _see_ Peter! I _like_ Peter!"
"Why you darling!" cried the nice lady.
"And I like Junior, that Mickey told me about, and your nice little girl
that I mustn't ever say no sw----"
Mickey promptly applied the flat of his hand to the lips of the astonished
child.
"And you like the little girl and the fat toddly baby----" he prompted.
"Yes," agreed Peaches enthusiastically, twisting away her head, "and I
like the milk and the meat--gee, I like the _meat_, only Mickey wouldn't
give me but a tiny speck 'til he asked the Sunshine Nurse Lady."
"You blessed child!" cried Nancy Harding. "Call Peter quickly!"
Mickey opened the door and signalled Peter and Junior.
"She likes you. She asked for you. You can both come at once," he
announced, holding the door at a narrow crack until they reached it, both
red faced, dripping, and fanning with their hats. Peter gasped for air.
"My God! Has any living child been cooped in this all day?" he roared.
"Get her out! Get her out quick! Get her out first and talk afterward.
This will give her scarlet fever!"
A shrill shout came from behind the intervening lady who arose and stepped
back as Peaches raised to her elbow, and stretched a shaking hand toward
Peter.
"Gee, Peter! You get your mouth soaped out first!" she cried. "Gee, Peter!
I _like_ you, Peter!"
Peter bent over her and then stooping to her level he explored her with
astonished eyes, as he cried: "Why child, you ain't big enough for an
exclamation point!" Peaches didn't know what an exclamation point was, but
Mickey did. His laugh brought him again into her thought.
"Mickey, let's beat it! Take me quick!" she panted. "Take me first and
talk afterward. Mickey, we just love these nice people, let's go drink
their milk, and eat their red berries."
"Well Miss Chicken!" said Mickey turning a dull red.
The Harding family were laughing.
"All right, everybody move," said Peter. "What do you want to take with
you Mickey?"
"That basket there," he said. "And that box, you take that Junior, and you
take the Precious Child, and the slate and the books dearest lady--and
I'll take my family; but I ain't so sure about this, lady. She's sweaty
now, and riding is the coolingest thing you can do. We mustn't make her
sick. She must be well wrapped."
"Why she couldn't take cold to-day----" began Peter.
"You and Junior shoulder your loads and go right down to the car," said
Mrs. Harding. "Mickey and I will manage this. He is exactly right about
it. To be taken from such heat to the conditions of motoring might----"
"Sure!" interposed Mickey, dreading the next word for the memories it
would awaken in the child's heart. "Sure! You two go ahead! We'll come in
no time!"
"But I'm not going to lug a basket and have a little chap carrying a
child. You take this and I'll take the baby!"
Mickey's wireless went into instant action so Peaches promptly rebelled.
"I ain't no baby!" she said. "Miss Leslie Moonshine Lady sent me her hair
ribbons and I 'spect she's been crying for them back every day; and my
name what granny named me is Peaches, so there!"
"Corrected! Beg pardon!" said Peter. "Miss Peaches, may I have the honour
of carrying you to the car?"
"Nope," said Peaches with finality. "Nobody, not nobody whatever, not the
biggest, millyingairest nobody alive can't ever carry me, nelse Mickey
says they can, and he is away off on the cars. I like you Peter! I just
like you heaps; but I'm Mickey's, so I got to do what he says 'cause he
makes me, jes like he ort, and nobody can't ever tend me like Mickey."
"So that's the ticket!" mused Peter.
"Yes, that's the ticket," repeated Peaches. "I ain't heavy. Mickey carried
me up, down is easier."
"Sure!" said Mickey. "_I take my own family_. You take yours. We'll be
there in a minute."
Peter and Junior disappeared with thankfulness and speed. Mrs. Harding and
Mickey wrapped Peaches in the sheet and took along a comfort for shelter
from the air stirred by motion. Steadying his arm, which he wished she
would not, they descended. Did she think he wanted Peaches to suppose he
couldn't carry her? He ran down the last flight to show her, frightening
her into protest, and had the reward of a giggle against his neck and the
tightening of small arms clinging to him. He settled in the car and
wrapped Lily in the comfort until she had only a small peep of daylight.
Mickey knew from Peaches' laboured breathing and the grip of her hands how
agitated she was; but as the car glided smoothly along, driven skilfully
by mentality, guided by the controlling thought of a tiny lame back, she
became easier and clutched less frantically. He kept the comfort over her
head. She had enough to make the change, to see so many strangers all at
once, without being excited by unfamiliar things that would bewilder and
positively frighten her.
Mickey stoutly clung to a load that soon grew noticeably heavy; while over
and over he repeated in his heart with fortifying intent: "She is my
family, I'll take care of her. I'll let them keep her a while because it
is too hot for her there, but they shan't _boss_ her, and they got to know
it first off, and they shan't take her from me, and they got to understand
it."
Right at that point Mickey's grip tightened until the child in his arms
shivered with delight of being so enfolded in her old and only security.
She turned her head to work her face level with the comfort and whisper in
glee: "Mickey, we are going just stylish like millyingaire folks, ain't
we?"
"You just bet we are!" he whispered back.
"Mickey, you wouldn't let them 'get' me, would you?"
"Not on your life!" said Mickey, gripping her closer.
"And Peter wouldn't let them 'get' me?"
"No, Peter would just wipe them clear off the slate if they tried to get
you," comforted Mickey. "We're in the country now Lily. Nobody will even
think of you away out here."
"Mickey, I want to see the country!" said Peaches.
"No Miss! I'm scared now," replied Mickey. "It was awful hot there and
it's lots cooler here, even slow and careful as Peter is driving. If you
get all excitement, and rearing around, and take a chill, and your back
gets worse, just when we have such a grand good chance to make it better--
you duck and lay low, and if you're good, and going out doesn't make you
sick, after supper when you rest up, maybe I'll let you have a little
peepy yellow chicken in your hand to hold a minute, and maybe I'll let you
see a cow. You'd give a good deal to see the cow that's going on your
book, wouldn't you?"
Peaches snuggled down in pure content and proved her femininity as she did
every day. "Yes. But when I see them, maybe I'll like a chicken better,
and put it on."
"All right with me," agreed Mickey. "You just hold still so this doesn't
make you sick, and to-morrow you can see things when you are all nice and
rested."
"Mickey," she whispered.
Mickey bent and what he heard buried his face against Peaches' a second
and when lifted it radiated a shining glory-light, for she had whispered:
"Mickey, I'm going to always mind you and love you best of anybody."
Because she had expected the trip to result in the bringing home of the
child, Mrs. Harding had made ready a low folding davenport in her first-
floor bedroom, beside a window where grass, birds and trees were almost in
touch, and where it would be convenient to watch and care for her visitor.
There in the light, pretty room, Mickey gently laid Peaches down and said:
"Now if you'll just give me time to get her rested and settled a little,
you can see her a peep; but there ain't going to be _much_ seeing or
talking to-night. If she has such a lot she ain't used to and gets sick,
it will be a bad thing for her, and all of us, so we better just go slow
and easy."
"Right you are, young man," said Peter. "Come out of here you kids! Come
to the back yard and play quietly. When Little White Butterfly gets rested
and fed, we'll come one at a time and kiss her hand, and wish her pleasant
dreams with us, and then we'll every one of us get down on our knees and
ask God to help us take such good care of her that she will get well at
our house."
Mickey suddenly turned his back on them and tried to swallow the lump in
his throat. Then he arranged his family so it was not in a draft, sponged
and fed it, and failed in the remainder of his promise, because it went to
sleep with the last bite and lay in deep exhaustion. So Mickey smoothed
the sheet, slipped off the ribbon, brushed back the curls, shaded the
light, marshalled them in on tiptoe, and with anxious heart studied their
compassionate faces.
Then he telephoned Douglas Bruce to ask permission to be away from the
office the following day, and ventured as far from the house as he felt he
dared with Junior; but so anxious was he that he kept in sight of the
window. And so manly and tender was his scrupulous care, so tiny and
delicate his small charge as she lay waxen, lightly breathing to show she
really lived, that in the hearts of the Harding family grew a deep respect
for Mickey, and such was their trust in him, that when he folded his
comfort and stretched it on the floor beside the child, not even to each
other did they think of uttering an objection. So Peaches spent her first
night in the country breathing clover air, watched constantly by her
staunch protector, and carried to the foot of the Throne on the lips of
one entire family; for even Bobbie was told to add to his prayer: "God
bless the little sick girl, and make her well at our house."
CHAPTER XIV
_An Orphans' Home_
"Margaret, I want a few words with you some time soon," said James Minturn
to his sister.
"Why not right now?" she proposed. "I'm not busy and for days I've known
you were in trouble. Tell me at once, and possibly I can help you."
"You would deserve my gratitude if you could," he said. "I've suffered
until I'm reduced to the extremity that drives me to put into words the
thing I have thrashed over in my heart day and night for weeks."
"Come to my room James," she said.
James Minturn followed his sister.
"Now go on and tell me, boy," she ordered. "Of course it's about Nellie."
"Yes it's about Nellie," he repeated. "Did you hear any part of what that
very charming young lady had to say to me at our chosen playground, not
long ago?"
"Yes I did," answered Mrs. Winslow. "But not enough to comprehend
thoroughly. Did she convince you that you are mistaken?"
"No. But this she did do," said Mr. Minturn. "She battered the walls of
what I had believed to be unalterable decision, until she made this
opening: I must go into our affairs again. I have got to find out where my
wife is, and what she is doing; and if the things Miss Leslie thinks are
true. Margaret, I thought it was _settled_. I was happy, in a way;
actually happy! No Biblical miracle ever seemed to me half so wonderful as
the change in the boys."
"The difference in them is quite as much of a marvel as you think it,"
agreed Mrs. Winslow.
"It is greater than I would have thought possible in any circumstances,"
said Mr. Minturn. "Do they ever mention their mother to you?"
"Incidentally," she replied, "just as they do maids, footman or governess,
in referring to their past life. They never ask for her, in the sense of
wanting her, that I know of. Malcolm resembles her in appearance and any
one could see that she liked him best. She always discriminated against
James in his favour if any question between them were ever carried to
her."
"Malcolm is like her in more than looks. He has her musical ability in a
marked degree," said Mr. Minturn. "I have none, but Miss Winton suggested
a thing to me that Mr. Tower has been able to work up some, and while both
boys are deeply interested, it's Malcolm who is beginning to slip away
alone and listen to and practise bird cries until he deceives the birds
themselves. Yesterday he called a catbird to within a few feet of him, by
reproducing the notes as uttered and inflected by the female."
"I know. It was a triumph! He told me about it."
"James is well named," said Mr. Minturn. "He is my boy. Already he's
beginning to ask questions that are filled with intelligence, solicitude
and interest about my business, what things mean, what I am doing, and
why. He's going to make the man who will come into my office, who in a few
more years will be offering his shoulder for part of my load. You can't
understand what the change is from the old attitude of regarding me as
worth no consideration; not even a gentleman, as my wife's servants were
teaching my sons to think. Margaret, how am I going back even to the
thought that I may be making a mistake? Wouldn't the unpardonable error be
to again risk those boys an hour in the company and influence which
brought them once to what they were?"
"You poor soul!" exclaimed Mrs. Winslow.
"Never mind that!" warned Mr. Minturn. "I'm not accustomed to it, and it
doesn't help. Have you any faith in Nellie?"
"None whatever!" exclaimed Mrs. Winslow. "She's so selfish it's simply
fiendish. I'd as soon bury you as to see you subject to her again."
"And I'd much sooner be buried, were it not that my heart is set on
winning out with those boys," said Mr. Minturn. "There is material for
fine men in them, but there is also depravity that would shock you
inexpressibly, instilled by ignorant, malicious servants. I wish Leslie
Winton had kept quiet."
"And so do I!" agreed Mrs. Winslow. "I could scarcely endure it, as I
realized what was going on. While Nellie had you, there was no indignity,
no public humiliation at which she stopped. For my own satisfaction I
examined Elizabeth before she was laid away, and I held my tongue because
I thought you didn't know. When _did_ you find out?"
"A newsboy told me. He went with a woman who was in the park where it
happened, to tell Nellie, but they were insulted for their pains. Some way
my best friend Douglas Bruce picked him up and attached him, as I did
William; it was at my suggestion. Of course I couldn't imagine that out of
several thousand newsies Douglas would select the one who knew my secret
and who daily blasts me with his scorn. If he runs into an elevator where
I am, the whistle dies on his lips; his smile fades and he actually
shrinks from my presence. You can't blame him. A man _should be able to
protect the children he fathers_. What he said to me stunned me so, he
thought me indifferent. In my place, would you stop him some day and
explain?"
"I most certainly would," said Mrs. Winslow. "A child's scorn is
withering, and you don't deserve it."
"I have often wondered what or how much he told Bruce," said Mr. Minturn.
"Could you detect any change in Mr. Bruce after the boy came into his
office?" asked Mrs. Winslow.
"Only that he was kinder and friendlier than ever."
"That probably means that the boy told him and that Mr. Bruce understood
and was sorry."
"No doubt," he said. "You'd talk to the boy then? Now what would you do
about Nellie?"
"What was it Miss Winton thought you _should_ do?"
"See Nellie! Take her back!" he exclaimed. "Give her further opportunity
to exercise her brand of wifehood on me and motherhood on the boys!"
"James, if you do, I'll never forgive you!" cried his sister. "If you tear
up this comfortable, healthful place, where you are the honoured head of
your house, and put your boys back where you found them, I'll go home and
stay there; and you can't blame me."
"Miss Winton didn't ask me to go back," he explained; "that couldn't be
done. I saw and examined the deed of gift of the premises to the city. The
only thing she could do would be to buy it back, and it's torn up inside,
and will be in shape for opening any day now, I hear. The city needed a
Children's Hospital; to get a place like that free, in so beautiful and
convenient a location--and her old friends are furious at her for bringing
sickness and crooked bodies among them. No doubt they would welcome her
there, but they wouldn't welcome her anywhere else. She must have endowed
it liberally, no hospital in the city has a staff of the strength
announced for it."
"James, you are wandering!" she interrupted. "You started to tell me what
Miss Winton asked of you."
"That I bring Nellie here," he explained. "That I make her mistress of
this house. That I put myself and the boys in her hands again."
"Oh good Lord!" ejaculated Mrs. Winslow. "James, are you actually thinking
of _that?_ Mind, I don't care for myself. I have a home and all I want.
But for you and those boys, are you really contemplating it?"
"No!" he said. "All I'm thinking of is whether it is my duty to hunt her
up and once more convince myself that she is heartless vanity personified,
and utterly indifferent to me personally, as I am to her."
"Suppose you do go to her and find that through pique, because you made
the move for separation yourself, she wants to try it over, or to get the
boys again--she's got a mint of money. Do you know just how much she has?"
"I do not, and I never did," he replied. "Her funds never in any part were
in my hands. I felt capable of making all I needed myself, and I have. I
earn as much as it is right I should have; but she'd scorn my plan for
life and what satisfies me; and she'd think the boys disgraced, living as
they are."
"James, was there an hour, even in your honeymoon, when Nellie forgot
herself and was a lovable woman?"
"It is painful to recall, but yes! Yes indeed!" he answered. "Never did a
man marry with higher hope!"
"Then what----?" marvelled Mrs. Winslow.
"Primarily, her mother, then her society friends, then the power of her
money," he answered.
"Just how did it happen?" she queried.
"It began with Mrs. Blondon's violent opposition to children; when she
knew a child was coming she practically moved in with us, and spent hours
pitying her daughter, sending for a doctor at each inevitable consequence,
keeping up an exciting rush of friends coming when the girl should have
had quiet and rest, treating me with contempt, and daily holding me up as
the monster responsible for all these things. The result was nervousness
and discontent bred by such a course at such a time, until it amounted to
actual pain, and lastly unlimited money with which to indulge every fancy.
"In such circumstances delivery became the horror they made of it,
although several of the doctors told me privately not to have the
slightest alarm; it was simply the method of rich selfish women to make
such a bugbear of childbirth a wife might well be excused for refusing to
endure it. Sifted to the bottom that was _exactly what it was_. I didn't
know until the birth of James that they had neglected to follow the
instructions of their doctors and made no preparation for nursing the
child; as a result, when I insisted that it must be done, shrieks of pain,
painful enough as I could see, resulted in a nervous chill for the mother,
more inhumanity in me, and the boy was turned over to a hired woman with
his first breath and to begin unnatural life. I watched the little chap
all I could; he was strong and healthy, and while skilled nurses were
available he upset every rule by thriving; which was one more count
against me, and the lesson pointed out and driven home that no young wife
could give a child such attention, so the baby was better off in the hands
of the nurse. That he was reared without love, that his mother took not an
iota of responsibility in his care, developed not a trait of motherhood,
simply went on being a society belle, had nothing to do with it.
"He did so well, Nellie escaped so much better than many of her friends,
that in time she seemed to forget it and didn't rebel at Malcolm's advent,
or Elizabeth's, but by that time I had been practically ostracized from
the nursery; governesses were empowered to flout and insult me; I scarcely
saw my children, and what I did see made me furious, so I vetoed more
orphans bearing my name, and gave up doing anything. Then came the tragedy
of Elizabeth. Surely you understand 'just how' it was done Margaret?"
"Of course I had an idea, but I never before got just the perfect picture,
and now I have it, though it's the last word I _want_ to say to you, God
made me so that I'm forced to say it, although it furnishes one more
example of what is called inconsistency."
"Be careful what you say, Margaret!"
"I must say it," she replied. "I've encouraged you to talk in detail,
because I wanted to be sure I was right in the position I was taking; but
you've given me a different viewpoint. Why James, think it over yourself
in the light of what you just have told me. Nellie never has been a mother
at all! Her heart is more barren than that of a woman to whom motherhood
is physical impossibility, yet whose heart aches with maternal instinct!"
"Margaret!" cried James Minturn.
"James, it's true!" she persisted. "I never have understood. For fear of
that, I led you on and now look what you've told me. Nellie never had a
chance at natural motherhood. The thing called society made a foolish
mother to begin with, while she in turn ruined her daughter, and if
Elizabeth had lived it would have been passed on to her. You throw a new
light on Nellie. As long as she was herself, she was tender and loving,
and you adored her; if you had been alone and moderately circumstanced,
she would have continued being so lovable that after ten years your face
flushes with painful memory as you speak of it. I've always thought her
abandoned as to wifely and motherly instinct. What you say proves she was
a lovable girl, ruined by society, through the medium of her mother and
friends."
"If she cared for me as she said, she should have been enough of a
woman----" began Mr. Minturn.
"Maybe she _should_, but you must take into consideration that she was not
herself when the trouble began; she was, as are all women, even those most
delighted over the prospect, in an unnatural condition, _in so far that
usual conditions were unusual_, and probably made her ill, nervous,
apprehensive, not herself at all."
"Do you mean to say that you are changing?"
"Worse than that!" she said emphatically. "I have positively and
permanently changed. Even at your expense I will do Nellie justice. James,
your grievance is not against your wife; it is against the mother who bore
her, the society that moulded her."
"She should have been woman enough----" he began.
"Left alone, she was!" insisted Mrs. Winslow. "With the ills and
apprehensions of motherhood upon her, she yielded as most young,
inexperienced women would yield to what came under the guise of tender
solicitude, and no doubt eased or banished pain, which all of us avoid
when possible; and the pain connected with motherhood is a thing in awe of
which the most practised physicians admit themselves almost stunned. The
woman who would put aside pampering and stoically endure what money and
friends could alleviate is rare. Jim, pain or no pain to you, you must
find your wife and learn for yourself if she is heartless; or whether in
some miraculous way some one has proved to her what you have made plain as
possible to me. You must hunt her up, and if she is still under her
mother's and society's influence, and refuses _to change_, let her remain.
But--but if she has changed, as you have just seen me change, then you
should give her another chance if she asks it."
"I can't!" he cried.
"You must! The evidence is in her favour."
"What do you mean?" he demanded impatiently.
"Her acquiescence in your right to take the boys and alter their method of
life; her agreement that for their sakes you might do as you chose with no
interference from her; both those are the acknowledgment of failure on her
part and willingness for you to repair the damages if you can," she
explained. "Her gift of a residence, the furnishings of which would have
paid for the slight alterations necessary to transform a modern home into
the most beautiful of modern hospitals, in a wonderfully lovely location,
and leave enough to start it with as fine a staff as money can provide--
that gift is a deliberately planned effort at reparation; the limiting of
patients to children under ten is her heart trying to tell yours that she
would atone."
"O Lord!" cried James Minturn.
"Yes I know," said Mrs. Winslow. "Call on Him! You need Him! There is no
question but that He put into her head the idea of setting a home for the
healing of little children, in the most exclusive residence district of
Multiopolis, where women of millions are forced to see it every time they
look from a window or step from their door. Have you seen it yourself,
James?"
"Naturally I wouldn't haunt the location."
"I would, and I did!" said Mrs. Winslow. "A few days ago I went over it
from basement to garret. You go and see it. And I recall now that her
lawyer was there, with sheets of paper in his hand, talking with workmen.
I think he's working for Nellie and that she is probably directing the
changes and personally evolving a big, white, shining reparation."
"It's a late date to talk about reparation," he said.
"Which simply drives me to the truism, 'better late than never!' and to
the addition of the comment that Nellie is only thirty and that but ten
years of your lives have been wasted; if you hurry and save the remainder,
you should have fifty apiece coming to you, if you breathe deep, sleep
cool, and dine sensibly," said Mrs. Winslow.
She walked out of the room and closed the door. James Minturn sat thinking
a long time, then called his car and drove to Atwater alone. He found
Leslie in the orchard, a book of bird scores in her hands, and several
sheets of music beside her. Her greeting was so cordial, so frankly sweet
and womanly, he could scarcely endure it, because his head was filled with
thoughts of his wife.
"You are still at your bird study?" he asked.
"Yes. It's the most fascinating thing," she said.
"I know," he conceded. "I want the titles of the books you're using. I
mentioned it to Mr. Tower, our tutor, and he was interested instantly, and
far more capable of going at it intelligently than I am, because he has
some musical training. Ever since we talked it over he and the boys have
been at work in a crude way; you might be amused at their results, but to
me they are wonderful. They began hiding in bird haunts and listening,
working on imitations of cries and calls, and reproducing what they heard,
until in a few weeks' time--why I don't even know their repertoire, but
they can call quail, larks, owls, orioles, whip-poor-wills, so perfectly
they get answers. James will never do anything worth while in music, he's
too much like me; but Malcolm is saving his money and working to buy a
violin; he's going to read a music score faster than he will a book. I'm
hunting an instructor for him who will start his education on the subjects
which interest him most. Do you know any one Leslie?"
"No one who could do more than study with him. It's a branch that is just
being taken up, but I have talked of it quite a bit with Mr. Dovesky, the
harmony director of the Conservatory. If you go to him and make him
understand what you want along every line, I think he'd take Malcolm as a
special student. I'd love to help him as far as I've gone, but I'm only a
beginner myself, and I've no such ability as it is very possible he may
have."
"He has it," said Mr. Minturn conclusively. "He has his mother's fine ear
and artistic perception. If she undertook it, what a success she could
make!"
"I never saw her so interested in anything as she was that day at the
tamarack swamp," said Leslie, "and her heart was full of other matters
too; but she recognized the songs I took her to hear. She said she never
had been so attracted by a new idea in her whole life."
"Leslie, I came to you this morning about Nellie. I promised you to think
matters over, and I've done nothing else since I last saw you, hateful as
has been the occupation. You're still sure of what you said about her
then?"
"Positively!" cried Leslie.
"Do you hear from her?" he asked.
"No," she answered.
"You spoke of a letter----" he suggested.
"A note she wrote me before leaving," explained Leslie. "You see I'd been
with her all day and we had raced home so joyously; and when things came
out as they did, she knew I wouldn't understand."
"Might I see it?" he asked.
"Surely," said Leslie. "I spoke of that the other day. I'll bring it."
When Leslie returned James Minturn read the missive several times; then he
handed it back, saying: "What is there in that Leslie, to prove your
points?"
"Three things," said Leslie with conviction: "The statement that for an
hour after she reached her decision she experienced real joy and expected
to render the same to you; the acknowledgment that she understood that you
didn't know what you were doing to her, in your reception of her; and the
final admission that life now held so little for her that she would gladly
end it, if she dared, without making what reparation she could. What more
do you want?"
"You're very sure you are drawing the right deductions?" he asked.
"I wish you would sit down and let me tell you of that day," said Leslie.
"I have come to you for help," said James Minturn. "I would be more than
glad, if you'd be so kind."
At the end: "I don't think I've missed a word," said Leslie. "That day is
and always will be sharply outlined."
"You've not heard from her since that note?" he asked. "You don't know
where she is?"
"No," said Leslie. "I haven't an idea where you could find her; but
because of her lawyer superintending the hospital repairs, because of the
wonderful way things are being done, Daddy thinks it's sure that the work
is in John Haynes' hands, and that she is directing it through him."
"If it were not for the war, I would know," said Mr. Minturn. "But
understanding her as I do----"
"I think instead of understanding her so well, you scarcely know her at
all," said Leslie gently. "You may have had a few months of her real
nature to begin with, but when her rearing and environment ruled her life,
the real woman was either perverted or had small chance. Do you ever stop
to think what kind of a man you might have been, if all your life you had
been forced and influenced as Nellie was?"
"Good Lord!" cried Mr. Minturn.
"Exactly!" agreed Leslie. "That's what I'm telling you! She had got to the
realization of the fact that her life had been husks and ashes; so she
went to beg you to help her to a better way, and you failed her. I'm not
saying it was your fault; I'm not saying I blame you; I'm merely stating
facts."
"Margaret blames me!" said Mr. Minturn. "She thinks I'm enough at fault
that I never can find happiness until I locate Nellie and learn whether
she is with her mother and friends, or if she really meant what she said
about changing, enough to go ahead and be different from principle."
"Her change was radical and permanent."
"I've got to know," said Mr. Minturn, "but I've no faith in her ability to
change, and no desire to meet her if she has."
"Humph!" said Leslie. "That proves that you need some changing yourself."
"I certainly do," said James Minturn. "If I could have an operation on my
brain which would remove that particular cell in which is stored the
memory of the past ten years----"
"You will when you see her," said Leslie, "and she'll be your surgeon."
"Impossible!" he cried.
"Go find her," said Leslie. "You must to regain peace for yourself."
James Minturn returned a troubled man, but with viewpoint shifting so
imperceptibly he did not realize what was happening. On his way he decided
to visit the hospital, repugnant as the thought was to him. From afar he
was amazed at sight of the building. He knew instantly that it must have
been the leading topic of conversation among his friends purposely avoided
in his presence. Marble pillars and decorations had been freshly cleaned,
the building was snowdrift white; it shone through the branches of big
trees surrounding it like a fairy palace. At the top of the steps leading
to the entrance stood a marble group of heroic proportions that was
wonderful. It was a seated figure of Christ, but cut with the face of a
man of his station, occupation, and race, garbed in simple robe, and in
his arms, at his knees, leaning against him, a group of children: the
lean, sick and ailing, such as were carried to him for healing. Cut in the
wall above it in large gold-filled letters was the admonition: "Suffer
little children to come unto me."
That group was the work of a student and a thinker who could carry an idea
to a logical conclusion, and then carve it from marble. The thought it
gave James Minturn, arrested before it, was not the stereotyped idea of
Christ, not the conventional reproduction of childhood. It impressed on
Mr. Minturn's brain that the man of Galilee had lived in the form of other
men of his day, and that such a face, filled with infinite compassion, was
much stronger and more forceful than that of the mild feminine countenance
he had been accustomed to associating with the Saviour.
He entered the door to find his former home filled with workmen, and the
opening day almost at hand. Everywhere was sanitary whiteness. The
reception hall was ready for guests, his library occupied by the matron;
the dining-hall a storeroom, the second and third floors in separate
wards, save the big ballroom, now whiter than ever, its touches of gold
freshly gleaming, beautiful flowers in tubs, canaries singing in a brass
house filling one end of the room, tiny chairs, cots, every conceivable
form of comfort and amusement for convalescing little children. The pipe
organ remained in place, music boxes and wonderful mechanical toys had
been added, rugs that had been in the house were spread on the floor. No
normal man could study and interpret the intention of that place unmoved.
All over the building was the same beautiful whiteness, the same comfort,
and thoughtful preparation for the purpose it was designed to fill. The
operating rooms were perfect, the whole the result of loving thought,
careful execution, and uncounted expense.
He came in time to the locked door of his wife's suite, and before he left
the building he met her lawyer. He offered his hand and said heartily: "My
sister told me of the wonderful work going on here; she advised me to come
and see for myself. I am very glad I did. There's something bigger than
the usual idea in this that keeps obtruding itself."
"I think that too," agreed John Haynes. "I've almost quit my practice to
work out these plans."
"They are my wife's, by any chance?"
"All hers," said Mr. Haynes. "I only carry out her instructions as they
come to me."
"Will you give me her address?" asked Mr. Minturn. "I should like to tell
her how great I think this."
"I carry a packet for you that came with a bundle of plans this morning,"
said Mr. Haynes. "Perhaps her address is in it. If it isn't, I can't give
it to you, because I haven't it myself. She's not in the city, all her
instructions she sends some one, possibly at her mother's home, and they
are delivered to me. I give my communications to the boy who brings her
orders."
"Then I'll write my note and you give it to him."
"I'm sorry Minturn," said Mr. Haynes, "but I have my orders in the event
you should wish to reach her through me."
"She doesn't wish to hear from me?"
"I'm sorry no end, Mr. Minturn, but----"
"Possibly this contains what I want to know," said Mr. Minturn. "Thank
you, and I congratulate you on your work here. It is humane in the finest
degree."
James Minturn went to his office and opened the packet. It was a complete
accounting of every dollar his wife was worth, this divided exactly into
thirds, one of which she kept, one she transferred to him, and the other
she placed in his care for her sons to be equally divided between them at
his discretion. He returned and found the lawyer had gone to his office.
He followed and showed him the documents.
"What she places to my credit for our sons, that I will handle with the
utmost care," he said. "What she puts at my personal disposal I do not
accept. We are living comfortably, and as expensively as I desire to.
There is no reason why I should take such a sum at her hands, even though
she has more than I would have estimated. You will kindly return this deed
of transfer to her, with my thanks, and a note I will enclose."
"Sorry Minturn, but as I told you before, I haven't her address. I'm
working on a salary I should dislike to forfeit, and my orders are
distinct concerning you."
"You could give me no idea where to find her?"
"Not the slightest!" said the lawyer.
"Will you take charge of these papers?" he questioned.
"I dare not," replied Mr. Haynes.
"Will you ask her if you may?" persisted Mr. Minturn.
"Sorry Minturn, but perhaps if you should see my instructions in the case,
you'd understand better. I don't wish you to think me disobliging."
Mr. Minturn took the sheet and read the indicated paragraph written in his
wife's clear hand:
_Leslie Winton was very good to me my last day in Multiopolis. She was
with me when I reached a decision concerning my future relations with Mr.
Minturn, as I would have arranged them; and I am quite sure when she knows
of our separation she will feel that it would not have occurred had James
known of this decision of mine. It would have made no difference; but I am
convinced Leslie will think it would, and that she will go to James about
it. I doubt if it will change his attitude; but if by any possibility it
should, and if in any event whatever he comes to you seeking my address,
or me, I depend on you to in no way help him, if it should happen that you
could. For this reason I am keeping it out of your power, unless I make
some misstep that points to where I am. I don't wish to make any mystery
of my location, or to disregard any intention that it is barely possible
Leslie could bring Mr. Minturn to, concerning me. I merely wish to be left
alone for a time; to work out my own expiation, if there be any; and to
test my soul until I know for myself whether it is possible for a social
leopard to change her spots. I have got to know absolutely that I am
beyond question a woman fit to be a wife and mother, before I again trust
myself in any relation of life toward any one_.
Mr. Minturn returned the sheet, his face deeply thoughtful. "I see her
point," he said. "I will deposit the papers in a safety vault until she
comes, and in accordance with this, I shall make no effort to find her. My
wife feels that she must work out her own salvation, and I am beginning to
realize that a thorough self-investigation and revelation will not hurt
me. Thank you. Good morning."
CHAPTER XV
_A Particular Nix_
Peaches awakened early the following morning, but Mickey was watching
beside her to help her remember, to prompt, to soothe, to comfort and to
teach. He followed Mrs. Harding to the kitchen and from the prepared food
selected what he thought came closest filling the diet prescribed by the
Sunshine Nurse, and then he carried the tray to a fresh, cool Peaches
beside a window opening on a grassy, tree-covered lawn. Her room was
bewildering on account of its many, and to the child, magnificent
furnishings. She found herself stretching, twisting and filled with a wild
desire to walk, to see the house, the little girl and the real baby, the
lawn beyond her window, the flower-field, the red berries where they grew,
and the birds and animals from which came the most amazing sounds.
After doing everything for Peaches he could, Mickey went to his breakfast.
Mary Harding and Bobbie were so anxious to see the visitor they could
scarcely eat. Knowing it was no use to try forcing them, their mother
excused them and they ventured as far as the door. There they stopped,
gazing at the little stranger, while she stared back at them; but she was
not frightened, because she knew who they were and that they would be good
to her, else Mickey would not let them come. So when Mary, holding little
brother's hand, came peeping around the door-casing, Peaches withdrew her
attention from exploration of the strip of lawn in her range and
concentrated on them. If they had come bounding at her, she would have
been frightened, but they did not. They stood still, half afraid, watching
the tiny white creature, till suddenly she smiled at them and held out her
hand.
"I like you," she said. "Did you have red berries for breakfus?"
Mary nodded and smiled back.
"I think you're a pretty little girl," said Peaches.
"I ain't half as pretty as you," said Mary.
"No a-course you ain't," she admitted. "Your family don't put your ribbon
on you 'til night, do they? Mickey put mine on this morning 'cause I have
to look nice and be jus' as good, else I have to be took back to the hot
room. Do you have to be nice too?"
"Yes, I have to be a good girl," said Mary.
"What does your family do to you if you don't mind?"
"I ain't going to tell, but it makes me," said Mary. "What does yours do
to you?"
"I ain't going to tell either," said Peaches, "but I get jus' as good!
What's your name?"
"Mary."
"What's his?"
"Bobbie. Mostly we call him little brother. Ain't he sweet?" asked Mary.
"Jus' a Precious Child! Let him mark on my slate."
Mickey hurried to the room. As he neared the door he stepped softly and
peeped inside. It was a problem with him as to how far Mary and Bobbie
could be trusted. Having been with Peaches every day he could not
accurately mark improvements, but he could see that her bones did not
protrude so far, that her skin was not the yellow, glisteny horror it had
been, that the calloused spots were going under the steady rubbing of
nightly oil massage, so lately he had added the same treatment to her
feet; if they were not less bony, if the skin were not soft and taking on
a pinkish colour, Mickey felt that his eyes were unreliable.
Surely she was better! Of course she was better! She had to be! She ate
more, she sat up longer, she moved her feet where first they had hung
helpless. She was better, much better, and for that especial reason, now
was the time to watch closer than before. Now he must make sure that a big
strong child did not drag her from the bed, and forever undo all he had
gained. Since he had written Dr. Carrel, Mickey had rubbed in desperation,
not only nights but mornings also, lest he had asked help before he was
ready for it; for the Sunshine Lady had said explicitly that the sick back
could not be operated until the child was stronger. He was working
according to instructions.
Mickey watched. Any one could have seen the delicate flush on Peaches'
cheek that morning, the hint of red on her lips, the clearing whites of
her lovely eyes. She was helping Bobbie as Mickey had taught her. And
Bobbie approved mightily. He lifted his face, put up his arms and issued
his command: "Take Bobbie!"
"No! No, Bobbie," cautioned Mary. "Mother said no! You must stay on the
floor! Sister will take you. You mustn't touch Peaches 'til God makes her
well. You asked Him last night, don't you know? Mother will spank
something awful if you touch her. You must be careful 'til her back is
well, mother said so, and father too; father said it crosser than mother,
don't you remember?"
"Mustn't touch!" repeated Bobbie, drawing back.
Mickey was satisfied with Mrs. Harding's instructions, but he took the
opportunity to emphasize a few points himself. He even slipped one white,
bony foot from under the sheet and showed Mary how sick it was, and how
carefully it must be rubbed before it would walk.
"I can rub it," announced Mary.
"Well don't you try that," cautioned Mickey.
"Why go on and let her!" interposed Peaches. "Go on and let her! After
today you said you'd be gone all day, an' if rubbing in the morning and
evening is good, maybe more would make me walk sooner. Mickey I ain't ever
said it, 'cause you do so much an' try so hard, but Mickey, _I'm just
about dead to walk!_ Mickey, I'm so tired being lifted. Mickey, I want to
get up an' _go_ when I want to, like other folks!"
"Well that's the first time you ever said that."
"Well 'tain't the first time I ever could a-said it, if I'd a-wanted to,"
explained Peaches.
"I see! You game little kid, you," said Mickey. "All right Mary, you ask
your mother and if she says so, I'll show you how, and maybe you can rub
Lily's feet, if you go slow and easy and don't jar her back a speck."
"Ma said I could a-ready," explained Mary. "Ma said for me to! She said
all of us would, all the time we had while you were away, so she'd get
better faster. Ma said she'd give a hundred dollars if Peaches would get
so she could walk here."
Mickey sat back on his heels suddenly.
"Who'd she say that to?" he demanded.
"Pa. And he said he'd give five hundred."
"Aw-a-ah!" marvelled Mickey.
"He did too!" insisted Mary. "This morning 'fore you came out. And Junior
would too. He'd give all in his bank! And he'd rub too! He said he would."
"Well, if you ain't the nicest folks!" cried Mickey. "Gee, I'm glad I
found you!"
"Jus' as glad!" chimed in Peaches.
"Mary bring Robert here!" called Mrs. Harding from the hall. Mary obeyed.
Mickey moved up and looked intently at Peaches.
"Well Lily," he asked, "what do you _think_ of this?"
"I wouldn't trade this for Heaven!" she answered.
"The country is all the Heaven a-body needs, in June."
"Mickey, bring in the cow now!" ordered Peaches.
"Bring in the cow?" queried Mickey.
"Sure, the little red cow in the book that makes the milk. I want you to
milk her right here on my bed!"
"Well, if I ever!" gasped Mickey. "Sure, I'll bring her in a minute; but a
cow is big, Lily! Awful, great big. I couldn't bring her in here; but
maybe I can drive her where you can see, or I don't know what would be the
harm in taking you where the cows are. But first, one thing! Now you look
right at me, Miss Chicken. There's something I got to _know_ if you got in
your head _straight_. Who found you, and kept them from 'getting' you?"
"Mickey-lovest," replied Peaches promptly.
"Then who d'you belong to?" he demanded.
"Mickey!" she answered instantly.
"Who you got to do as I say?" he continued.
"Mickey," she repeated.
"Whose _family_ are you?" he pursued.
"Mickey's!" she cried. "Mickey, what's the matter? Mickey, I love you
best. I'm all yours. Mickey, I'll go back an' never say a word 'bout the
hotness, or the longness, or anything, if you don't _want_ me here."
"Well I do want you here," said Mickey in slow insistent tone. "I want you
right here! But you got to _understand_ a few things. You're mine. I'm
going to keep you; you got to understand that."
"Yes Mickey," conceded Peaches.
"And if it will help you to be rubbed more than I can rub you while I got
to earn money to pay for our supper when we go home, and fix your back,
and save for the seminary, I'll let the nice pleasant lady rub you; and
I'll let a good girl like Mary rub you, and if his hands ain't so big they
hurt, maybe I'll let Peter rub you; he takes care of Bobbie, maybe he
could you, and he's got a family of his own, so he knows how it feels; but
it's _nix_ on anybody else, Miss Chicken, see?"
"They ain't nobody else!" said Peaches.
"There is too!" contradicted Mickey. "Mary said Junior would rub your
feet! Well he _won't!_ It's nix on Junior! _He's only a boy! He ain't got
a family. He hasn't had experience. He doesn't know anything about
families! See?_"
"He carries Bobbie, an' I bet he's heavier 'an me."
For the first time Mickey lost his temper.
"Now you looky here, Miss Chicken," he stormed. "I ain't saying what he
_can_ do, I'm saying what he _can't!_ See? You are mine, and I'm going to
keep you! He can lift me for all I care, but he can't carry you, nor rub
your feet, nor nothing; because he didn't find you, and you ain't his; and
I won't have it, not at all! Course he's a good boy, and he's a nice boy,
and you can play with him, and talk to him, I'll let you just be awful
nice to him, because it's polite that you should be, but when it comes to
carrying and rubbing, it's nix on Junior, because he's got no family and
doesn't understand. See?"
"Umhuh," taunted Peaches.
"Well, are you going to promise?" demanded Mickey.
"Maybe," she teased.
"Back you go and never see a cow at all if you don't promise," threatened
Mickey.
"Mickey, what's the matter with you?" cried Peaches suddenly. "What you
getting a tantrum yourself for? You ain't never had none before."
"That ain't no sign I ain't just busting full of them," said Mickey. "Bad
ones, and I feel an awful one as can be coming right now, and coming
quick. Are you going to promise me nobody who hasn't a _family_, carries
you, and rubs you?"
Peaches looked at him in steady wonderment.
"I guess you're pretty tired, an' you need to sleep a while, or somepin,"
she said. "If you wasn't about sick yourself, you'd know 'at anybody 'cept
you 'ull get their dam-gone heads ripped off if they touches me, nelse
_you_ say so. _Course_, you found me! _Course_, they'd a-got me, if you
hadn't took me. _Course_, I'm yours! _Course_, it's nix on Junior, an'
it's _nix_ on Peter if you say so. Mickey, I jus' love you an' love you.
I'll go back now if you say so, I tell you. Mickey _what's_ the matter?"
She stretched up her arms, and Mickey sank into them. He buried his face
beside hers and for the first time she patted him, and whispered to him as
she did to her doll. She rubbed her cheek against his, crooned over him,
and held him tight while he gulped down big sobs.
"Mickey, tell me," she begged, like a little mother. "Tell me honey? Are
you got a pain anywhere?"
"No!" he said. "Maybe I _was_ kind of strung up, getting you here and
being so awful scared about hurting you; but it's all right now. You are
here, and things are going to be fine, only, will you, cross your heart,
_always and forever remember this: it's nix on Junior, or any boy, who
ain't got a family, and doesn't understand?_"
"Yes Mickey, cross my heart, an' f'rever, an' ever; an' Mickey, you must
get the soap. I slipped, an' said the worse yet. I didn't mean to, but
Mickey, I guess you can't _trust_ me. I guess you got to soap me, or beat
me, or somepin awful. Go on an' do it, Mickey."
"Why crazy!" said Mickey. "You're mixed up. You didn't say anything! What
you said was all rightest ever; rightest of anything I ever heard. _It was
just exactly what I wanted you to say_. I just _loved_ what you said."
"Well if I ever!" cried Peaches. "Mickey, you was so mixed up you didn't
hear me. I got 'nother chance. Goody, goody! Now show me the cow!"
"All right!" said Mickey. "I'll talk with Mrs. Harding and see how she
thinks I best g 
Michael O'Halloran / Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924