“Here she is!” Max shouted wildly
“Here she is!” Max shouted wildly
A motor car was standing alone in front of a house near by. While they were working, Max had noticed it and planned for it.
“One of you run and crank up that machine. Quick!” he ordered.
“I will! I know it; it belongs to one of theneighbors.” Billy was off, shouting back as he ran.
Now they knew what the water was for. Max plunged his handkerchief into it, opened the little sand-filled mouth and wiped it clear; the nostrils the same. Far out he pulled the small tongue. “Hold it so,” he directed Sydney, while he continued with the cleansing water.
The machine rolled up, and before it could stop, or hardly halt its speed, Max with the child in his arms sprang in, Sydney behind him carrying the basin.
“The nearest doctor,” Max called, but unnecessarily, for Billy understood, knew well which doctor lived nearest, and was already on the way.
Down the street they flew, heedless of the shouts of the irate owner of the car, while Max and Sydney worked hard to restore breath to the smothered child.
Again and again Max dipped the usefulhandkerchief into the basin, wiping off the little face. Gently he pressed down her chest and released the pressure in even movements.
“Why don’t you drive, Billy?” he called desperately.
Billy was driving as he never had before, using every ounce of power he could make. He too felt the wheels creep, and pumped the gasoline more recklessly, while he went hot and cold at the thought of being too late.
It was a beautiful afternoon and the streets were full of women and children, sauntering or playing in the freedom and security of the quiet residence district. In and out among them, honking and shouting, Billy wove his perilous course, praying fervently if not consciously that he might not kill one child while trying to save another.
It was not till an officer swooped down upon him from a cross street that he knew how fast he was going. In long leaps the galloping horsemade losing speed beside the machine, the officer shouting raucously at Billy to stop, and waving his club with menace.
“It’s life and death!” shouted Billy, driving on still faster.
In a second more he was at the physician’s door; but not before the anxious boys in the tonneau imagined they had seen a tiny flutter of the little eyelids; thought they felt a faint lift of the bosom. Yet they dared not hope; the motion of the car was deceiving.
They were fortunate to find the doctor in, one of the few to keep an office in the residence district. From Max’s trembling arms he took the little one and laid her on the operating table, questioning while he began a skillful examination, the boys watching silently, fearing yet longing to hear his verdict.
He took no time for words save a few commands when, needing assistance, he forced something between her lips, drop by drop.
In a moment they saw a movement of her lips. Presently they could see her breath coming, and at last her eyes opened—opened slowly and closed again, showing no intelligence; and Max looked anxiously into the doctor’s noncommittal face, trying to read it.
How the moments dragged for the watching boys! The doctor’s face grew sterner with each second, and Max began to lose courage, keeping his eyes from the other boys, when a soft moan broke the silence, and following that, incoherent sounds from the stiff, sand-roughened lips of the child.
The doctor straightened. His face relaxed in a smile. To the boys it seemed as if he had been suddenly released from some dreadful ordeal. Sternness melted in tenderness, and his hand had the gentleness of a mother’s as he smoothed back the matted hair and spoke cheering words.
“Hi there, baby! It’s all right now, little one.”
Slowly the child’s gaze wandered from one to another, half frightened, only half aroused.
Billy thrust his head within her view. “Want to go home, Taddie?”
That was Walter’s pet name for her and it further aroused her. She knew Billy and feebly reached out her arms to him.
“Yes, we’ll take her home,” the doctor said. “The sight of her mother will be best medicine now.” With that they stepped into the car and drove to Mr. Buckman’s house, arriving to find it in great commotion.
Mrs. Wright and Billy’s mother had been out when the accident occurred; but the story of Madge, who had been playing with Dottie, added to the conflicting reports of the neighbors, had terribly frightened Mrs. Buckman. She had telephoned the police department, called her husband, and had their own physician waiting when the boys brought her darling safely to her arms.
The doctors joined in a further examination,while in an adjoining room, by Mr. Buckman’s order, the three boys waited the result. They were still under great tension, and restless while the tall clock ticked off the interminable minutes, one by one.
But at last the door opened to admit the men; and the boys heard a soft sobbing, and the mother’s voice speaking a torrent of endearing words over her rescued child.
“Tell them—thank—Oh, James, you know what to say,” she called after her husband in a voice tremulous with tears of joy.
Before he could speak, Walter ran in, disheveled, haggard, and closing the door, stood behind his father.
“Tell me, young man,” the second doctor asked Max, “how it happened you knew enough to treat that child as you did? But for that nothing could have saved her. As it was, it was a mighty close shave.”
“My father’s a doctor, and I have sometimesbeen with him on emergency cases, and seen him work. Besides he told me a few things.” Max spoke modestly in a voice weak from excitement and hard work.
“He did more than that,” Billy put in quickly. “He worked at the digging faster than any of us; he had twice the power of Mumps and me, though we tried as hard as we could, and he thought of everything, and—”
“We all did as much as we could,” Max interrupted; “if either one had done less it wouldn’t have been enough.”
“That’s true. Yet your knowledge of what to do after she was uncovered saved the child. Mr. Buckman, thank him for your little girl’s life.”
Max hung back and was about to speak again when Walter pushed forward and caught Max by both hands. “I—I am the one who owes you everything, Max Ball!”
“It’s nothing,” Max objected, too upset torealize what he was saying; “I—I guess I’m even with you.”
Mr. Buckman stared at them wonderingly, and the two doctors waited a minute in embarrassed silence, realizing that here was a matter quite out of their province. With the promise of another visit later in the evening, they departed, leaving Mr. Buckman gazing questioningly at his agitated son.
“Oh, you don’t know what reason you have to be ashamed of me, father,” Walter burst out; “I’ll never be able to look you in the face again.”
He told his story, how he had listened behind the portieres when Max made his confession, how jealous he had been of Max’s popularity at school, and the way he had revenged himself.
“What? You that plucky chap that came here last winter?” Ignoring Walter, Mr. Buckman strode forward and grasped Max by the hand. “I wondered what had become of you. Now you cross my threshold again to bring mylittle daughter who, but for you, would be dead.” He turned away. Stern and proud, he could not trust his voice.
For a moment there was absolute silence. Mr. Buckman still held Max by the hand, while the rest waited for him to speak again, Walter with his back to the others, his shoulders drooping, the figure of abject shame.
“I want to see you in my office—soon; to-morrow. I want to talk with you. A chap who can do the plucky things—”
“It wasn’t any more than they did,” Max began, determined that Billy and Sydney should be recognized.
“Yes, yes, I know all of you saved my little girl; but only one sick, neglected boy came alone to face me and make restitution for a fault. That’s what I’m remembering now. I wish to God I had a son like that!” He wheeled and walked rapidly out of the room.
“Oh, father! father!” It was a desperatecry. Walter ran toward the door but it closed in his face. He threw himself against it and, heedless of listeners, sobbed like a heart-broken child.
For an embarrassed instant the other three stood stock-still and looked at the floor. They did not know what to do. Mentally numb from the strain they had undergone, this added distress bewildered them.
It was Billy who first roused to the proper thing. “Beat it, kids!” he whispered hoarsely; and they scrambled out, leaving Walter quite unconscious of their departure.
That race with death for the life of little Dottie Buckman brought such intense fatigue to Max that he did not that night think much about what Mr. Buckman might have to say to him; but the next day the coming interview mixed itself exasperatingly with books and recitations. He built all sorts of extravagant plans for the future; scoffed at himself for them, and was chagrined to find that the mere notion of good fortune could so distract him.
But when late that afternoon he was admitted to find Mr. Buckman busy at his desk, his dreams seemed very foolish. The atmosphere of severity that pervaded the office sobered him; and as the absorbed man did not look up, Max seated himself quietly to wait till he should be noticed.
At business the man looked the master he was.Power showed in every movement of his broad hand; sternness in every feature of his large, deeply lined face. He was one to drive important enterprises to success against the greatest odds; the only kind of man who is able to conquer the territory of the Northwest where nature, though lavish, makes harsh resistance.
Yet Max could read in that severe face love of justice, scorn of pettiness, and pride of personal honor.
When he looked up and saw Max the lines in his face broke from sternness to pleasure and he rose and shook hands cordially.
“I’ve been expecting you, my boy,” he said kindly, pointing to a nearer chair. “I’ve thought of you all day.”
It was a long conference. Mr. Buckman insisted on supporting Max while he finished his education. He wished him to leave Mrs. Schmitz at the beginning of the university year and go to a chapter house where he could use all of histime for study and other student interests—no doubt of Max’s ability to “make” a fraternity occurred to him. For this he told Max he had already arranged to pay him an allowance of one hundred dollars a month.
Max was intuitive; was able in mind to spring forward to the future, seeing at a glimpse all the long path to be traveled, as a bird, skimming the ether high above the earth, sees the great panorama spread below and her destination almost before she sets out.
So Max saw that no matter how kind and generous Mr. Buckman might mean to be, and really be, this course would bind Max to him for the future. Though he should accept the offer as a loan—and his pride was robust enough to allow it to be a loan only—he saw that deviation from the man’s wishes would mean to him ingratitude, a breach of fidelity.
It was to escape a similar situation that Max had run away from home. Could he give astranger what he would not give his father, who had so much greater right to exact it—the absolute surrender of his own wishes?
He found it hard to explain himself. Every argument he offered was met by a stronger one. The financier was bent on doing something large and splendid for the boy who had saved his child; and he would not accept Max’s refusal.
“Mr. Buckman, were you always rich?” Max asked, a touch of desperation in his tone.
“Indeed, no. I was a poor farmer boy—made every dollar I have.” The pride of the self-made man was in his loud voice. “I carved my fortune out of this land—the timber, the water power, its rivers and sea.”
“What if some one, when you were a boy, had compelled you to take up medicine, or the law, or to be a minister? Would you?”
“By George, no! I wasn’t the sort for life in a chair. I wanted to be out fighting things; would like to be outside now.”
“Even if you had not gained riches you would have wished to have a voice in planning your life, wouldn’t you?”
“My boy, I don’t want to plan your life for you; I only want to help you carry out your own plans.”
Max was helpless. He felt Mr. Buckman’s present sincerity; yet he knew that one who said, “Go!” or “Come!” to scores of men who obeyed absolutely, would expect obedience from anyone who took his money. Deceit would be the alternative.
Suddenly he realized a little of the reason for Walter’s failure to please his father; unlimited pocket money, the flattery of his fellows, and the easy but fatal path of duplicity.
At last Max spoke resolutely. “Mr. Buckman, something in me makes it impossible to accept your offer. I don’t believe you yourself would think as well of me if I did.”
Surprised, the man looked steadily at Max amoment before replying. “I believe you’re right, boy. You’re a new sort of youngster to me. Go ahead in your own way. Only you must promise me this: if you ever need money, for school or business, come to me. Will you? Will you promise that?”
“If—if I need it pretty badly I’ll come. I’ll come before I have to rob ice boxes.” They both smiled, and the tension was broken.
After some further talk the interview ended, and Max left the office knowing he had won respect instead of merely gratitude. It had been a hard hour; and considering he had “turned down” a hundred dollars a month he thought it strange that he should feel so buoyant.
Whistling gayly as he walked from the car, he opened the door of his home to meet a stranger, a small, quiet-spoken man with an inscrutable face, who rose at once and held out a copy of the morning paper. “Are you the young man mentioned here as Max Ball?”
The paper had published a long, sensational account of the event of the previous day, magnifying Max’s part in it, giving a garbled story of his life in the city, and asserting that he would become the beneficiary of Mr. Buckman.
Max admitted his identity, but denied the closing statement.
Question after question the man asked, questions that seemed apropos of nothing at first; but they slowly, circuitously led to facts in Max’s life that he had intended never to disclose.
It seemed as if he were on trial for a crime he had not committed, and was being proven certainly guilty. As often as possible he took refuge in silence; but the man was able to compel speech, to make him tell all he knew and more besides.
“What is all this for?” Max importuned for the third time, when the man was closing his notebook.
“That I am not at liberty to mention.”
“I’m all straight; honest, I am!” Max pleaded. “And whatever you think you’ve found against me, I don’t want my—the lady here who has been so good to me, to be drawn into it. I can’t have her troubled.”
A slight change softened the inquisitor’s face. “I think we won’t need to annoy her. Perhaps you are more anxious yourself than is necessary.” With this he left Max to a long evening of distress.
Mrs. Schmitz was dining out that night, and he fidgeted for hours, wondering what the strange grilling could portend. But she was so late in returning that he concluded he must not disturb her, and went to bed in a ferment of excitement and bafflement.
With the dark his worries loomed larger. Could it be possible that at some place where he had worked things were missing, and at this late day they were suspecting him? Wild visions of prosecution, conviction on circumstantial evidence,and jail filled Max with terror, and when delayed sleep finally came, they persisted in troubled dreams.
The morning sun scattered his fears and a talk with Mrs. Schmitz wiped them out; though when the ringing of the doorbell interrupted them, her parting remark lodged a new idea, not a fear but an anxiety.
“Don’t you be troubling about stealings you never did, nor police, nor things like that. Some one iss hunting you; it will be your father!”
It was Billy coming with a cheerful message, which he delivered without the ceremony of other greetings.
“Max, old boy, you’re it, all righty. I was over to see May Nell last night. Mr. Smith was there, and I told him about what you did the other day—”
“What we did,” Max corrected.
“No interruptions. May Nell had told him how Walter treated you and how you stood it;and Mr. Smith said, ‘Tell that young chap to call on me. I’ve employment and promotion for men of that stamp. Most anyone can make good in the sunshine on a smooth road; but the man who plods alone in the dark and uphill is the one I can trust.’”
“He meant you, Billy. Mumps told me all about how Jim Barney treated you, and how you worked all summer with robbery hanging over you because you wouldn’t tell on a girl; and—”
“Cut it! That’s ancient history. It was Mr. Smith I worked for, and my job’s waiting for me whenever I want it. What I have for you is business for today. Right now! This minute! Mr. Smith wants you to come to see him. Understand?”
“But I can’t go to work yet. Mrs. Schmitz—”
“He doesn’t want you right away, only to chin with you a bit; to catch you before some one else nabs you. He’s all the time looking for‘young timber well-seasoned and straight-grown,’ as he calls it, to put into his business.”
“How can he tell timber before it is tried out?”
“That’s just it. He thinks you have been tried out.”
Max pondered a moment, amazed by the many opportunities offering, by the strange things happening to him. But back of all perplexities stood a calm, strong figure, Mrs. Schmitz. And in contrast to the stress and strain he knew he must meet if he went to work for Mr. Smith or Mr. Buckman, he saw the warm, fragrant nursery with its mysteries of nature ever inviting study, and busy, happy evenings with music, his goddess.
It was but an instant that he was silent, his gaze fixed on the floor in an abstraction that Billy respected though it seemed long to him before Max spoke.
“Billy, it’s jolly good of you to do so muchfor me; and kind of Mr. Smith, too. But when he knows my plans I believe he will advise me to stick to them.”
“What are they?”
“Work for Mrs. Schmitz till I learn her business as well as she knows it.”
“What then?”
“She wants me for her partner.”
“Hooray for you! But you’ll have to give up your music.”
“No; she wishes me to go on with that. She says music and flowers go together, and that flowers will support me while I am conquering the violin. After that she—she thinks I’ll do something unusual. I shall try not to disappoint her.”
“Gee! Luck’s coming your way all right. No, you’ve just gone and collared the witch.”
“I guess that’s the only way to win her.”
They went away together to attend to many pressing matters concerning the play, which wasonly two days off. And the hurry and excitement pushed other disturbing thoughts out of Max’s mind till it was over, so successfully over that it won the coveted literary prize for the Fifth Avenue High.
But the day after, when Max was tired and depressed from loss of sleep, all his anxieties returned; and they were many, for he had imagined a hundred different dilemmas behind that strange interview.
He was playing softly in the cool parlor, trying to forget his worries, when a tall, distinguished looking man was ushered in. Max turned, and almost dropped his violin. “Father! Oh, father, you are ill!”
“Not ill now—now that I have found you.” He held out his arms.
Forgetting all his past resolves, Max threw himself into those open arms and returned their close, passionate embrace. “Father! I’m so glad!”
“My boy! You cannot be half so glad as I. Do you forgive me?”
Max was astonished. His father asking forgiveness! “Don’t ask that! I—I am the one.”
“No. I was the older one. I should have been the wiser, known my son better. All this long dreadful year that I have searched for you, I have known that it was my unreasonable command that you should give up music entirely and study law whether you liked it or not, that drove you from home. It was my bitter lesson.”
Max noted the thinner figure, the lines of sorrow in his face, and the gray in his hair that had been shining black the last time he saw it; and he understood a little of the grief that had walked by his father’s side day and night for the longest year of his life.
Mrs. Schmitz, hearing voices, came in and met Max’s father as a friend. “I have been expecting you already. I knew you would be findinghim, Mr. Ballantree. Mine own daughter after thirteen years comes out of the sea to me; much easier was it for you to find Max.”
Briefly they discussed the search, coming soon to Max’s future.
“What do you wish, my son? To stay here or come home with me?”
How different was this from the heated words, sounding so terrible in young ears, that had driven Max from home. “I’d rather see you dead than a miserable fiddler!” the father had said, standing before his library fire, and not looking up when his son left the room for the last time.
Max told of Mrs. Schmitz’s goodness, her wisdom, and her business offer, not omitting the future he hoped for with his violin. “But if you wish it I will go with you and try to make a success of law.”
The sad, careworn look came again to the man’s face, but before he could speak Mrs.Schmitz broke in. “The law iss it? Will you ask him to that?”
“No. I ask nothing of him, except that he shall try to be a good man and—and love his old father a little.”
His voice trembled, and Max went to him, putting his arm across his shoulders. “I shall always do that, father. I think I understand you now.”
“Ach! If fathers only would remember that when the goot God cuts out a boy mit the pattern of a fiddler he iss not intending to make a lawyer to settle fights. Mit music you settle fights better anyways.”
“You are right. Mothers know best. His did, but I wouldn’t listen to her. The boy stays with you, Mrs. Schmitz. You saved him.”
When Mr. Ballantree left shortly for his eastern home it was to arrange his affairs for removing to Washington, the state that Max chose for his future home.
THE END