"And there y' stay," called Johnnie; "—for life!"
CIS was seated on her narrow pallet, her back against the prized excelsior cushion, her knees drawn up within the circle of her slender arms. About her shoulders tumbled her hair, its glossy waves framing a face, pale and tense, in which her eyes were wide pools of black.
Johnnie was just below her on the floor, his quilt spread under him for comfort, a bare foot nursed in either hand. The combined positions were such as invariably made for confidences. And he guessed that what she had to tell him now was something unusually important and exciting.
"Johnnie," she whispered, and he saw himself dancing in those dark pools; "—oh, if I don't tell it to somebody, I'll justdie!Oh, Johnnie, what do you think? What do youthink?"
He thought; then, "New shoes?" he hazarded. "A new dress? A—a—more money at the fact'ry? Or"—and in an excited rush—"another book!"
"Oh!" She lifted her face to the ceiling, wagging her head helplessly. "Shoes! or a dress! or money! or a book! They're nothing, Johnnie, alongside of the truth—justnothing!"
"Well, then, what?" he asked, leaning forward encouragingly. "Go on, Cis! Tell me!"
"Johnnie Smith,"—impressively—"you're sitting beside a young lady that's going to be married!"
Johnnie gasped. "Married?" He fell back from her, the better to stare. He had expected an important communication; but he was not prepared for anything so astounding as this.
She nodded. "Right away."
Going to be married! So that was why she seemed so different, so changed! that was why she had been wearing her hair up, and fussing so often with her nails! why she cared no longer for Edwarda! why she could not see the people of his thinks! It was simple enough, now that he understood. Of course with a wedding in view, naturally she was grown-up; and a girl, whenever she got grown-up, could not let her braids hang down her back. And as for fine hands— "Y' mean y've heard from thePrince?" he demanded.
She laughed. "No-o-o-o! Oh, Johnnie, you silly!"
He knit his brows and regarded her reprovingly. "Well," he argued, "y' always told me how much y' love him."
"But I didn't ever know him even! And that was a long time ago!—No, it's some one else, and really a Prince, because he's so splendid! Oh, Johnnie, guess! Guess the most wonderful person ever! Guess a knight! Like Galahad! Oh, he'sexactlylike Galahad!" Now she gazed past him. There were tears on her eyelashes. Her parted lips were trembling. "I'm too happy almost to live!" she added. Then down went her forehead to rest on her knees, and he saw that she was trembling all over.
There was a long silence. Just at first he had felt inclined to taunt her a little for being so changeable in her affections, so flighty; and it had hurt his opinion of her, this knowledge that she could be disloyal. But now he was curious. Who was really a Prince? and splendid? and like Galahad?
He saw a figure, tall and dark, majestically seated upona great, bay horse. A cap shaded proud, piercing eyes. A uniform set the rider wholly apart from all the ordinary men hurrying by in both directions. Who in the city of New York was so like a knight as one of those brave, superb, unapproachable, almost royal, creatures, a mounted policeman? ("Fine Irishers," as Mrs. Kukor called them.)
Then Johnnie was reminded of something. "Cis, will y' be married with a red carpet?" he whispered.
She looked up, turning on him a smile so sweet and glowing that it was like a light. "I don't know," she whispered back. "Maybe—if I want one—I think so." Down went her head again.
Now another picture. The carpet was laid. It stretched across the smooth pavement under a long, high, gray canopy. A red carpet and a gray canopy meant just one thing: great wealth. And Johnnie saw Cis following where that carpet led, beside her one of the four richest men in the world. This man was Mr. Astor (or Mr. Vanderbilt, or Mr. Rockefeller, or Mr. Carnegie—any one of the quartette would do). The mounted policeman was still a part of the happy scene, but only in an official capacity, since from the back of his prancing bay he was keeping off the vast crowd that was swarming to see the bridal couple.
And, naturally, the policeman, in spite of his fine uniform, was not to be compared for a moment to the bridegroom. New York had many policemen; it had only one Mr. Astor (or Mr. Vanderbilt, or Mr. Rockefeller, or Mr. Carnegie). Also, the future surroundings of a Mrs. Policeman—what were they when put alongside what Cis would have when she was Mrs. Any-one-of-the-Four? A house as big as the Grand Central Station—that was a certainty. With it would go silk dresses and furs with dozens of little tails to trim them; jewels of the sort Aladdin had sent the Sultan for the Princess Buddir alBuddoor; books in as great a number as Cis cared to buy, all from that store in Fifth Avenue; automobiles like those owned by the Fifty-fifth Street rich man; dishes of massy gold.
"And I betcher I'll ride in one of her cars," he thought; "and I'll read her books!" And at once the future looked rosy and promising.
She began to whisper again, her chin on a knee: "He's got a place for me all picked out! I won't have to go to the factory any more! I'll have pretty clothes, and good things to eat every meal, and see plays and moving-pictures every week, and just have nothing to do but keep house, and sew, and——"
The startled expression on Johnnie's face stopped her. "Keep house?" he repeated, disgusted. "Sew?" These were not matters which should trouble the bride of a millionaire! "What're y' goin' t' do things likethatfor?"
She blinked at him, rebuffed and puzzled. "Why not? I like to sew."
"Aw,"—the palace of his vision was down now, had vanished like Aladdin's own—"what's your new name goin' t' be?" He felt unaccountably cross.
"Johnnie! What's the matter with you? And you mean you don't know? you can't guess? You haven'tnoticed?And you right here all the time?"
Surprise stiffened Johnnie's countenance. "Oh!" he cried, amazed and glad. "Oh, Cis, I know now! You're goin' t' marry One-Eye!"
Girls, as he knew, were very strange; and surely this one was not the least so. It was a conclusion that came to him now, and forcibly. For at his solemn, heart-felt, happy question, what this girl did was to fall back against her pillow, shouting with laughter, waving both arms, even kicking out her feet in the craziest manner. And "One-Eye!" she repeated; "One-Eye!" Then was swept into another paroxysm of mirth.
Presently, "Well, go on! Tell me!" Johnnie said with proper masculine severity.
"Oh, Johnnie, youareso funny!" she declared breathlessly. "One-Eye! Thatold man!Oh, never, never, never,never!" The last never was only a squeak.
"When y' git done laughin'—" he prompted; and waited, lips set, and lids lowered with displeasure.
"Somebody athousandtimes nicer than One-Eye!" she went on. "Amilliontimes nicer! And, oh, Johnnie, how Ilovehim!"
Johnnie's heart sank, heavy with the great pity that now welled up in his heart. He knew whom she meant; but he knew, too, that, sweet and pretty and lovable as she was, and no doubt capable of winning the affections of a mounted policeman or a millionaire, she had not the slightest chance in the world of marrying the handsome, the good, the wise, the peerless and high-born Mr. Perkins. "St! st! st!" he mourned. He sighed, leaned against the side of the shelf, propped his yellow head on a big hand, and watched her sadly.
"Mrs. Algernon Godfrey Perkins!"—Cis spoke as if in an ecstatic dream. "A. G. P.!Oh, but they're lovely initials!"
He was glad when she leaned her head on her knees again, for then she could not see his face. "Gee!" he murmured.
"It was you brought him to me!" went on Cis. "I'll never forget that, Johnnie! It means my whole life! Just think of that! A whole, long, wonderful life withhim!"
"Aw, but, Cis! Are y' sure y' got a chance?"—his voice was tender with sorrowful concern.
She sat up. "Johnnie Smith, what're you talking about?" she demanded. "Achance!Why, he loves me! He says so! Over and over and over! And look here!"She thrust a finger under the collar of her dress and drew out a length of white ribbon, narrow and shining. Mid-way of it, playing along the satin, was a ring—a gold ring set all the way round with tiny, white, glistening stones. "Mr. Perkins, he gave me this," she added, and caught the ring to her lips.
"Mrs. Perkins!" Now his eyes were big with the wonder of it all! That Waldorf-Astoria apartment—Cis was to live in it! There could no longer be any doubt of it. The ring was solid proof. Almost reverently he reached to take it in his fingers. "The same as Aladdin loved the Princess!" he said slowly.
Cis gave a toss of her brown head. "Oh, Aladdin!" she scoffed. "This is really and truly, Johnnie! There's no make-believe about it!"
What all this meant to her, to Mr. Perkins, and to him, he realized then. But he could not be happy over it because of a new fear. "Oh, Cis!" he cried, leaning close to speak low. "Don't y' know what's goin' t' happen? If y' tell Big Tom 'bout this, he'll kill y'! And, oh! oh! He'll killhim!Mister Perkins!"
"Sh! Sh!" She put an arm about him. "It's going to be all right! Who'll tell Big Tom? Don't you worry.Idon't. I'm not his daughter. Mr. Perkins is going to find me a guardian. It'll be a lady, I think. Anyhow then I'll do just what the guardian says. You know, guardians 're awfully stylish. Girls have them in books, and in the movies. Yesterday somebody was telling at the factory about——"
She had caught his interest, taking it from that fresh worry. His arms about her, his head resting against her shoulder, they talked on and on, in whispers. When Barber came stomping in, and ordered them to be quiet, Johnnie forsook the little blue room; but he could not sleep, and stole to the roof for a breath of fresh air.
The night was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Or was it the joy in his own heart that made everything seem so perfect? How deeply blue were the patches of star-sprinkled sky showing between clouds of dazzling white! How sweet and live was the air driving cityward from the sea! And the moon! As it came slipping from cloud to cloud, as round as the washtub, and nearly as large, it seemed to Johnnie to have a face that he could see plainly. And that face, full and fat, was laughing!
"CIS BAR-R-BER-R-R! Cis Bar-r-r-ber-r-r! Cis Bar-r-r-ber-r!"
It was the shrill voice of the Italian janitress, calling up from the area, and the summons was peremptory and impatient.
The day was Sunday, so that Cis, as well as Big Tom, was at home. At the moment the longshoreman was humped over the sink, rinsing his bluish jowls after a shave. Cis was beside him, standing at the kitchen window. The day before she had been told by a girl friend that one side of every person's face is always better-looking than the other side; and now she was holding up in front of her the broken bit of mirror while, as she turned her head delicately, now this way, now that, she tried to decide between the merits of the two views.
"CisBar—rber!" sounded the call again, this time with an added note of annoyance.
Cis transferred her attention to her nose. Recently a certain somebody had told her one or two things about that nose. She was considering this, aided by the glass. "My! That janitress is getting bossier and bossier!" she remarked somewhat languidly.
Johnnie, bent over his violets, paused with a flower half done. He marveled at her lack of curiosity, envying her for it. How grandly grown-up she was! As for him, he was fairly on pins and needles to know what it was thejanitress wanted. "St! st!" he hissed cautiously (Barber's head being just then buried in the roller towel). He tried hard to catch her eye.
"CisBAR-BER!"—it was a shriek.
"I've told that woman, over and over, that my nameisn'tBarber," went on Cis, touching her hair with deft fingers.
Barber took his head out of the towel. "Go and see what she wants," he commanded irritably. "She'll wake the old man."
"She wants me to be running up and down three flights of stairs," returned Cis, calmly. (It was astonishing the attitude she took these days with Big Tom, the tone of equality she used.) "She thinks I'm still one of the youngsters in this building, and that she can order me around like she used to do. But I'm going to remind Madam Spaghetti that I'm seventeen to-day." She gave a toss of her head as she went out.
Seventeen! Sure enough! Johnnie pondered her good fortune. It would be quite a little more than six years before he would be seventeen. How remote that fortunate day seemed! And how the time would drag! Oh, if there were only some scheme for making it go faster!
"Let your hair alone!" scolded Big Tom, who was raking his own at the window, his legs spraddled wide in order to lower himself and thus bring his head on a level with Cis's mirror.
A scout is obedient. Down came Johnnie's hand. Also, a scout is cheerful when obeying; so up went the corners of his mouth. And there was one more point to cover: courtesy. "Yes, sir," he answered politely. He proceeded with his petals of violet cotton and his little length of stem. For what had Mr. Perkins said so often about all these matters of conduct?
"Get the habit of doing them, old fellow. If being ascout means anything, it means living up to the laws, sticking close to the spirit of the whole scout idea, and following out what the Handbook teaches. Put the question of Big Tom out of your mind. Whether he likes what you do or not; and whether or not you please him when you live by the laws, those aren't the main considerations. No! It's yourself you must think of! your character! Remember that you're not trying to make over Tom Barber. Body and soul, you're making over Johnnie Smith!"
And these days Johnnie Smith was getting on by leaps and bounds with his preparation, his training to be a scout. Fortunately that meeting between Mr. Perkins and Big Tom had made no difference whatever in his program. The morning after it took place, the scoutmaster had made his appearance as usual at eleven o'clock. "I can't let Mr. Barber drive me away," he explained. "Why, that would be deserting you, old fellow, and you're counting on me, aren't you? No, we'll go right ahead."
"But if he finds out!" Johnnie ventured, happy, yet somewhat apprehensive.
"He'll order me out again probably," returned Mr. Perkins, calmly. "Of course, if he could understand what I'm trying to do for you, I'm sure he'd look at the whole matter in a friendlier way." (Mr. Perkins never came closer than this to a criticism of the longshoreman.) "Well, he can't understand, because, you see, the poor chap never had the right thing done for him.—Yes, we'll go right ahead."
However, as Johnnie continued to feel nervous on the score of what his foster father might do to this good friend if the latter was again discovered at the flat, the scoutmaster, for Johnnie's sake, and to make the boy's mind more easy, agreed to change the time of his call to a little after one o'clock of each afternoon, it being decided that this hour was the safest.
Johnnie had wanted to say something about the ring, and the engagement—something to the effect that he was happy over the news, only Mr. Perkins was taking his (Johnnie's) job away from him, since he had planned, when he grew up,—yes, and even before—to take care of Cis himself. But for some reason he did not find it easy to broach the subject; and since the scoutmaster did not begin it (he looked ruddier and browner than ever before, Johnnie thought), the upshot of it was that the engagement did not get discussed at all.
Instead, the Handbook took up the whole of the hour. A mysterious signal on the sink pipe brought all of the books down to them, descending in the basket as if out of the sky. Mrs. Kukor had to be thanked then, from the window, after which Mr. Perkins and Johnnie settled down to a chapter treating of the prevention of accidents, first-aid, and lifesaving. And that afternoon, when the scoutmaster was gone, Letitia was several times rescued from drowning, and carried on a stretcher; and that evening Cis, on coming in from work, found Grandpa's old, white head bandaged scientifically in the dish-towel, this greatly to the veteran's delight, for he believed he had just been wounded at the Battle of Shiloh.
The chapter for the next day after proved even more exciting. It was all about games—the Treasure Hunt, and Let 'er Buck, Capture the Flag, and dozens more, but each as strange to Johnnie as another, since he had never played one of them. Mr. Perkins added his explanations to those in the Handbook, and showed Johnnie and Grandpa how cock-fighting was done, gave a demonstration of skunk tag, and proved that the soft, splintery boards of the kitchen floor were finely adapted to mumbly peg.
That night on the roof, Johnnie hailed to him a score of scouts, along with Jim Hawkins and David, Aladdin, and several of the younger Knights of King Arthur. Thenwent forward a great game of duck on a rock, followed by a relay race and dodge-ball. The roof had come to mean more and more to Johnnie of late, but now he felt especially glad that he had it to go to. During the past few weeks he had frequented it under every sort of summer-night sky. It was his weather station, his observatory, his gymnasium, his park, his highway, his hilltop, his Crusoe's Island. In the thinks he conjured up there, it was also his railroad station, for he traveled far and wide from it on trains that went puffing away from that little house built at the top of the stairs; and it was his wharf, to which tall-masted ships came with the swift quiet of so many pigeons. But now the roof was for him still another place—besides a health resort: it was his playground for all those scout games.
But he and Mr. Perkins had not stopped at that chapter on Games. From cover to cover Johnnie absorbed the Handbook, reading even the Appendix and the Index! He read the advertisements, too, and came to own a kodak, a junior rifle, a watch, a scout axe, and various other desirable things. But the merit badge he did not own. He meant to earn that, to have it really—not just as a think; for which reason he never lagged in the matter of his meal getting.
Big Tom profited through this determination of Johnnie's. Night after night he had biscuits and gravy. He had apple sauce where formerly Johnnie would have let the longshoreman eat his green apples uncooked. Barber profited, too, in the amount of work Johnnie did every day, promptly and thoroughly, and in those good turns which served to make old Grandpa happier.
Now as Johnnie waited for Cis to return from the area, he pondered on the difference between Big Tom and Mr. Perkins. The latter had often pointed out to Johnnie that it did not cost anything to be either polite or cheerful, andthe boy liked being both. Why was Big Tom neither? "Mister Barber, what does 'Birds of a feather flock t'-gether' mean?" heinquired.
Barber had on a white collar and his best coat. His shoes were laced, too. This was the Sunday-morning longshoreman that was the pleasantest to look at. "Where d' y' git hold of such stuff?" was his retort. (Yet Barber smiled as he put on his hat. The boy was coming to time in great shape these days, behaving himself, doing his work, learning to answer a man right. A blind person could see the improvement. Who could say truthfully that he was not raising the boy first-class?)
As the hall door shut behind Barber, Johnnie could scarcely keep himself down in his chair. He wanted to look out of the window to try if he could not see Cis. But he stayed where he was, and twisted away busily. Barber might be at his old tricks; might open the door at any moment. But also, just so many violets must be made of a Sunday, and just that many would be made. A scout is trustworthy.
Yet just so many violets were not to be made, thus proving how uncertain life is. For here came Cis, switching her way in importantly. She was panting. She was flushed. Cautiously she shut the door behind her. "I've been up on Mrs. Kukor's stairs, waiting," she half whispered. Under one arm she was carrying a long, satiny-white box.
"Anotherdoll?" demanded Johnnie, astonished and disappointed. To him any long, white box could mean nothing else. However, he rose, unable to be entirely indifferent even to a new doll.
"Doll!" cried Cis, scornfully. She dropped the box on the table.
Then Johnnie saw that it was not a doll; for out of one end of the box—an end that was open—extended ahandful of long, slender, green stems. The gift was flowers, tied, not with common string, but with a flat, green tape which looked fully as expensive as ribbon, and nearly as handsome. "Oh, gee!"—this as he seized the stems, not being able to wait, he was so excited, and tried to draw the flowers from the box. "Oh, Cis, d'y' s'pose these 're from One-Eye? D'y' think maybe One-Eye is back?—Oh, hurry!"
"Wait!"—speaking gently, yet with something of a high-and-mighty air. "Johnnie, you've got One-Eye on the brain." The cord untied, she slipped the cover off the box. Next she swept aside a froth of crisp tissue-paper which was still veiling the gift. Then together they looked down.
"O-o-o-o-h!" It was a chorus.
Roses! Pink roses! A very pile of them, snuggling in the cool, delicate greenery of ferns! Up from them lifted a fragrance that rivaled even that of orris root. Cis leaned to breathe. Next, Johnnie leaned, all but swelling to the bursting point that flat little chest of his to take in the delicious perfume. Thus for a while, and without speaking, they dipped their heads, alternating, to the box.
Presently, Cis lifted the bouquet—almost with reverence. The cups of the flowers were narrow, looked into from directly above, as if each flower had just opened. And, oh, how young each seemed! and how beautiful! When, in all the years since the tenement had been built, had it sheltered such loveliness! Bravely enough the dark, smudgy kitchen, with its scabby walls and its greasy, splintery floor, grew knots of violets. But here were flowers not made by hands: flowers which had come up out of the earth!—yet with a perfectness which was surely not of the earth; certainly not, at any rate, of this particular corner of it situated in the Lower East Side.
"My first roses!" Cis said. Her tone implied that they were not her last.
"They're fine!" pronounced Johnnie, solemnly.
"Fine?They're darling! They're precious! They look as if they'd just come down from Heaven!" Out of the long, white box Cis now took a small, square envelope. She handed it to Johnnie. "Open it, please," she bade, and rather grandly, her air that of one who has been receiving boxes of roses all her life. Then once more she buried that complimented nose among her flowers.
The envelope was not sealed. That was because, Johnnie concluded, there was no letter in it. What it contained was a narrow, stiff card. On the card, written in ink, was "Many happy returns of the day!" This Johnnie read aloud. "But there's no name," he complained. "So how d'y' know these didn't come from One-Eye? I'll just bet they did! I'll——"
"Read the other side," advised Cis calmly. She fell to counting the roses.
Over went the card. "Oh, yes; you're right—Mister Algernon Godfrey Perkins, it says. Gee! but he must've spent a pile of money! And what day's he talkin' about? How can a day return?"
"Your birthday can return—every year, the way Christmas does. To-day is seventeen times my birthday has returned; and there's just seventeen roses here. That's one for each year I've lived." She began to whisper into the buds, touching in turn each pink chalice with her pink lips. "This is the rose for the year I was one, and this is the rose for the year I was two, and this is the rose——"
Johnnie proceeded, boylike, to acquire some intimate and practical knowledge of her gift. He opened one flower a little, carefully spreading its petals. "My! ain't they soft!" he marveled. "Gee! I'd like t' make some 'xac'ly like 'em out o' silk! And, ouch! What'sthis?"
"This" was a thorn, the first he had ever seen. Learning that the roses had many thorns, he begged hard for one, whereupon Cis broke off for him that particular needlelike growth which was the farthest down on any stem. He received it gratefully on a palm, carried it to the window, and there split it open with a thumb-nail; and having been assured by Cis that it was a safe enough thing to do, he finally put the divided thorn into his mouth and chewed it up. And found it good!
Next, he begged a bit of stem. At first, Cis demurred, arguing that to cut a stem might injure the rose at its top; but was won over when Johnnie pointed out that all of the stems had been already cut once—"and maybe it was good for 'em!" But then the question was, which of the seventeen stems could best spare a bit of its length? This took consideration; also, measuring—with a string. At last the longest stem of all was found. Cis held it tenderly while Johnnie did the cutting. Snip! He got a quarter-inch of the growth. This, also, he split, examined, smelled, and ate. And discovered that it tasted even better than the thorn!
Meanwhile, Cis was parading, her bouquet clasped to her breast. He went over and walked to and fro beside her, studying the flowers. "Those come up out o' the dirt, didn't they?" he mused. "But they're pink and green. And dirt ain't, is it? So how can therosesbe like they are? 'R else the ground ought t' be pink on top—that's t' make the flowers—and green 'way down, so's t' grow the stems. And how does the roses know not t' git green up top and pink all up and down? And how——"
"Oh, do hush!" implored Cis. "Don't you see that I'm trying to think? Don't talk aloud, Johnnie, please!"
It was then they heard the stairs creak, and a heavy step in the hall. And thought of Big Tom for the first time—having been too enthralled by the roses, until now,to remember anything else. "Oh, quick!" Johnnie was between Cis and the door of her room. He moved aside to let her pass. "Oh!"—but, being panic-stricken, she stepped in the same direction, so that she stumbled against him. Finding himself again blocking her path, "Hurry!" he urged, and dodged the other way. She also dodged that way. Thus they did a kind of frightened side-to-side dance there in the middle of the kitchen floor—as the door opened and Barber appeared, his coat on his arm.
Face to face, with the roses between them, Cis and Johnnie stayed where they were, as if stricken into helplessness by the sight of the longshoreman, toward him turning their beseeching, anxious look. Each reached blindly to touch the other, for strength and sympathy. And the roses, lifted to the level of their lips, swayed to their hard breathing.
Barber lumbered closer. "What y' got there?" he demanded. He flung his coat from him, to light upon the table, where it covered those other flowers which were of cotton.
"R—roses," faltered Cis, her voice scarcely audible.
Now the longshoreman came to loom over them. "Where 'd y' git 'em?" he asked next, staring at the bouquet almost wildly. ("He'll jerk it," thought Johnnie.)
"You—you remember the—the Mr. Perkins?" Cis began, not taking her eyes from Big Tom's face.
Barber did not "jerk" the roses. Instead, he pointed one of those long arms toward the window. "Walk over there," he commanded, "and pitch 'em out!" His arm stayed outstretched.
Cis tried to speak, made as if to plead, but could only swallow. As for Johnnie, he was petrified, mesmerized, and remained in her path, watching those eyes which were bulging so furiously, while that white flash in the left onedarted into sight and disappeared, then came and went again.
"Out!" repeated Barber.
Cis lowered her look to her roses, as if she were seeing them for the last time. Even in the dusk of the kitchen their bright color was reflected upon her face, which, but for the flowers, would have been a ghastly white. A quick catching of the breath, like a sob. Then, her chin sunk among the blossoms, she half-circled Johnnie, and slowly started windowward.
"Git a move on!" Barber spoke low.
At that, she turned, holding the roses toward him. "Oh, Mr. Barber!" she begged. "Don't make me! Don't! The first roses I've ever had! The first! Oh, don't hurt 'em!"
The wheel chair began to swing around. It was curious how quickly a note of dissension could rouse the old soldier from sleep, though with any amount of excitement of the happy kind he napped undisturbed. "Johnnie? Johnnie?" he called. The faded, weak eyes peered about.
Barber acted quickly. With a muttered curse, he lunged across the room to Cis, snarled into her face as he reached her, and wrenched the roses out of her hand. "I'll hurt 'em all right!" he promised savagely.
"Tommie! Tommie!"—it was a joyous cry. The bright flowers had caught Grandpa's eye. "Oh! Oh, Tommie!" Now the chair started in Barber's direction. "Oh, Mother! Oh, go fetch Mother!" He let Letitia drop as he turned at the wheels.
The roses were half way out of the window; Barber drew them back, as if his father's delight in the bouquet had made him change his mind. But he did not give them to Grandpa. Instead, he hid the flowers behind him. "Git the old man some milk," he told Johnnie; and to Cis, "You put on your hat and take these out, and don't you come back with less'n a dollar."
"A—a dollar?" She began to weep. Though she did not yet understand what he meant her to do.
"Yes, a dollar." Barber stayed beside the window, the roses still at his back. "You heard me! Sell 'em."
She turned toward her room. "Sell my birthday present!" she sobbed. "The first bouquet I've ever had! The first!" But instinctively her hands went up to smooth her hair.
That told Johnnie that she was getting ready to put on her hat and obey a wicked command. He fumbled with the milk bottle and a cup, spilling a little of the drink. "All right, Grandpa," he soothed. But his tone was not indicative of his real feelings. Other words were boiling up in him that he did not speak: "Iwouldn't sell 'em, y' betcher life! He could go out and sell 'em himself! And I'd tell him so, y' betcher life! And he could lick me if he wanted t'! He could pound me till I died! But I wouldn't mind him!"
Something came driving up into his throat, his eyes, his pale, strained face. It was the blood of hate. It choked and blinded him, sang in his ears, swelled his thin neck, reddened his unfreckled cheeks. Oh, this was more than he could bear, even if he was to be a scout some day! The laws, the good resolutions, the lessons taught by Mr. Perkins, they were not helping him now when this fearful thing was being done. He began a terrible think—of Big Tom down on the floor, helpless, bleeding, begging for mercy, while Johnnie struck his cruel tormentor again and again—trampled him—laughed—shouted——!
Cis came from the tiny blue room. Her head was lowered. The tears were making wet tracks between eyes and pitifully trembling mouth. She walked as far as the table, which checked her, and she halted against it blindly.
"There you are," said Big Tom. He tossed the roses upon his coat. "Go on, now! Hurry! Don't wait roundtill the old man gits t' fussin'; and"—as she gathered the roses up and made slowly toward the door—"don't do no howlin' on the street, or folks'll think y're crazy."
She halted and turned her tear-stained face toward him. "Peoplewillthink I'm crazy!" she sobbed. "A girl like me selling flowers on the street of a Sunday morning!"
"Wait!" That had changed his mind. "Give 'em t' Johnnie."
Johnnie went to her. But for a moment he did not take the roses, only looked up, twisting his fingers, and working a big toe. His teeth were set hard. His lips were drawn away from them in a grimace of pure agony. Scouts were brave. Didhedare to be brave? Cis had not held out against the order, and he had blamed her in his heart for her weakness as he vowed to himself that he would rebel. But now—! Could he turn and speak out his defiance? Could he tell Barber that he would not sell the flowers?
The next thing, he had taken the bouquet into his hands. He did not mean to; and he did not look at Cis after he did it, because he could not. His head was bowed like hers now; his heart was bursting. But not solely on account of the roses. He was thinking of himself. He was a little coward—there was no use denying it! Yes, he was as cowardly as a girl! Here he had been given his chance "to face danger in spite of fear," "to stand up for the right"—and he had failed! He understood clearly that this was not the time to be obedient, and that he could not offer obedience as an excuse. No boy should carry out an order to do what was wrong.
"Git along!" It was Big Tom again, fuming over the delay.
Hatless, barefooted, in his flopping, too-big clothes, and with seventeen rosebuds clasped to his old, soiled shirt, Johnnie went slowly out, black shame in his soul.
"I—I couldn't say it!" he mourned. "I wanted t', butit jus' wouldn't come out! I s'pose it's 'cause I ain't a reg'lar scout yet." Going down the stairs, he saw no one, though several of the curious (having learned about the big box that had gone up) saw him. But, strangely enough, they watched him in silence, their speech stayed by the misery in his lowered face and bent shoulders. "After a while I'll be better, maybe," he told himself hopefully. "But now 'bout all I can do, seems like, is keep my teeth clean."
AN energetic, hot, and dust-laden wind caught at Johnnie as he came out upon the street, whipping strands of his yellow hair into his eyes and about his ears, blowing the fringe at his knees and elbows, billowing the big shirt till his ribs were fanned, and setting to wave gayly all those pink rosebuds and their green leaves.
The wind did more: warm as it was, it calmed his thoughts and steadied his brain, so that he was able to see the whole matter of the birthday bouquet clearly, and reach a new and better decision in regard to the flowers. Now he understood perfectly that in spite of whatever might happen to him when he got home, he could not sell Mr. Perkins's gift. No boy who intended to be a scout could do such a things—then return, even with the large sum of one whole dollar, and expect Cis to speak to him again. And how could he ever bear to admit such a sale to Mr. Perkins? or to One-Eye?
"I'd rather fall down and die!" he vowed. "'Cause it'd show 'em all that I ain't gittin' made over a bit!"
But if he did not dispose of the flowers to some one, as the longshoreman had ordered, what then? Should he turn around and go straight back to the flat—now? He halted for a moment, thinking. To go back would, of course, mean a beating, perhaps with the buckle end of the strap! (A thought that made him shiver as he stood there, on a hot pave, in the summer sun.) Oh, was there notsome way by which he could keep the bouquet and yet not suffer punishment? Suppose he gave the roses away? to the first old lady he met? and then reported to Big Tom—with tears!—that a gang of boys had snatched the flowers out of his hands? But that would be telling a lie, and a lie would be as bad, almost, as taking money for Cis's blossoms. No, he would not lie, though not so long ago, before he met the scoutmaster, and read the Handbook, he would not have hesitated; indeed, he would have rejoiced in cheating Barber, and complimented himself on thinking up such a clever story.
Suppose, however, that he were to sell the flowers for a dollar, keep the money, and not return to the flat at all? For a moment this plan seemed such a good one that he started off briskly, his look searching the faces of passersby. Another moment, and he came short again. How could he cut himself off from Mr. Perkins? For if he did, his hope of being a scout, when he was twelve years old, would be gone. Also, there was that wedding; he had set his heart on attending it, and walking the red carpet between lines of envious onlookers. No, this was no time to be leaving the flat.
Then, a splendid idea! And he made up his mind instantly that he would carry it out, so on he started, though more slowly than before. His new plan was this: He would walk, and walk, and walk, enjoying the buds all the while, their delicate fragrance, the silken touch of their petals against his chin. As he walked, he would not look at any one—just at the scenery; so that when he returned home he could truthfully say that he had seen no one even so much as look at the roses. No matter what any stranger might say to him, he would not stop, and then he could declare that nobody had stopped him. Also, should a lady or gentleman hail him, asking to buy, he would not answer, and so he would be able to say that he had not refused to sell.
He would stay out till it was late—till it was dark, and the three at home were grown anxious. Then when he felt sure that Grandpa was abed, back he would go, taking the roses to Cis. He would enter the flat "staggerin', like I can hardly stand up." And mourn over his ill-luck as a salesman. And if he had to take a whipping, "Well, I'll yell as hard's I can" (everybody's window was open these soft June nights) "even if I scare Grandpa a little, and I'll make Big Tom quit quick. And anyhow I'd feel awful for a long time if I done whathewants me to, but a lickin', why, it don't last."
He felt a return of pride and self-respect. On he rambled, looking at the scenery, and particularly at the higher portions of it, this so as to avoid the eyes of passing people. Luckily for his peace of mind, he did not know that cut flowers need water, or that they would wilt, and be less fresh and beautiful than they were now. So, considering the circumstances, his thoughts were cheerful, for while the coming evening might bring him trouble and tears, the future not so immediate promised praise and love and a clear conscience. "By mornin'—by this time t'-morrow, the hurt'll be over," he reflected, and then without regrets he could go in and look at Mr. Roosevelt, could face Aladdin, too, and Galahad, Jim Hawkins, Mr. Lincoln, Daniel Boone and all his other friends. (He had not read and studied that chapter on Chivalry without results!)
Every one stared at the strange little figure in the big, ragged clothes with a sumptuous bouquet of pink rosebuds held so high against his breast, under his folded arms, that only his tousled hair and his gray eyes showed. Some were curious, and swung round as he went by to look after him. Others smiled, for the contrast between the boy and his armful of blossoms was comical. A few looked severe,as if they suspicioned that he had not come by the bouquet honestly. Now and then a boy called to him, or ran alongside. At a corner, two girls caught at one of the buds, missed it, then scampered out of reach, squealing. His chin up, his eyes up, he ignored them all.
On and on he sauntered—west, then north. Perhaps he might go as far as that store where New York bought all of its books. Being Sunday, of course, the store would be closed. But it would be fine to have a look in at the windows. From the book shop he would swing east again, for a glimpse of the horse palace. It might just happen that One-Eye would be back! Oh, if only——!
"Hey there!"
Somehow he knew that the call was at him. And though it was a man who was hailing him, he pretended that he did not hear. But a whistle blew—a police whistle. Instantly he brought up. According to one of those twelve laws in the Handbook, a scout is obedient to "all other duly constituted authorities," and Mr. Perkins had explained that "constituted authorities" is simply a big word way, and a nice way, of saying "cops." Johnnie turned about; and there was the large figure in official blue, from whose gray mustache a whistle was at that moment descending.
The policeman was standing in front of a grocery store. Shoulder to shoulder with him was another man who was even larger—taller, and wider, and thicker through. About this man's dress there was something strange. He had on no tie. Instead, laid neatly below the narrow line of his white collar was a smooth triangle of black.
Johnnie marched straight up to the two. "Yes, sir?" he said to the patrolman. (He would have saluted if he had had a free hand.)
The patrolman stared, open-mouthed. Naturally enough he had jumped to the conclusion, as some othershad, that this boy in cast-off clothes had not come by a valuable bouquet through purchase. He had expected that Johnnie, when challenged, would promptly take to his heels. And here——!
The gentleman who had on no tie was also staring in amaze. Externally this boy with the roses was a guttersnipe. But—who in all his life ever before saw a guttersnipe with eyes so lacking in cunning and roguery? eyes, clear, honest, fearless, manly? "And that bright," the gentleman declared, but as if he were talking only to himself, "that ye could fair light a candle at 'em!"
Johnnie guessed that the candle-lighting eyes were his own. His ears moved perceptibly backward and his cheeks lifted in a grin. He was himself looking into a pair that were jolly and keen and kind—and Irish. A soft straw hat shaded them; and short, flaming-red hair, which filled in at either side of the head between hat and ear, served to accentuate the green that tinged their mild gray. Below the eyes was a nose unmistakably pugged. Lower still, a long upper lip gave to a mouth (generous in size) that, smiling, showed itself to be full of dental bridges made entirely of gold.
"Massy gold!" Johnnie reflected admiringly, "like the dishes Aladdin's got." And he made up his mind, then and there, that when he was grown-up, and could afford it, he would have gold bridges.
"And where d' ye think ye're goin' wid th' roses?" inquired the giant in the blue uniform, managing a smile for this rarity among city urchins.
"No 'xact where," replied Johnnie.
"Well, then, little lad, dear," said the other man, "is it lost ye are? or are all those sassy roses just coaxin' ye out into the sun?"
Now here was a thought that appealed! Johnnie's eyes twinkled. "Wouldn't y' both like t' have a smell of 'em?"he asked, and lifted the bouquet temptingly. "I was sent out to sell 'em."
Now witness a stern guardian of the peace, who but a moment ago had in his mind the thought of "landin' a bit of a thief," leaning forward to take a breath of the flowers. "Grand," he agreed. The larger man took off his hat before he bent to inhale. "Dain-tee!" he cried, with an enthusiastic shake of his red head; then to a half-dozen small loiterers who were straining to hear, "There! there! Run along now, children dear! Ye're wanted at the telephone!"
"I'll be tellin' certain folks a few things relatin' t' the sellin' o' this or that on the street," now observed the policeman, vaguely. "Eh, Father Pat?"
"I'll be glad t' go along with ye," returned the other, "and if things 're as bad as they look t' be, then it's Patrick Mungovan that'll do a bit o' rakin'!" He settled the straw hat.
"Just where d' y' live, young man?" asked the policeman.
Johnnie had guessed from the tone of the priest that a "rakin'" was something not altogether pleasant; had concluded, too, that it would fall to the lot of Big Tom. So he gave the address gladly, and as his two new friends stepped forward, was himself ten feet away in a flash, and—going in the wrong direction!
"Here, now! Here!" called the officer after him, at once stern and suspicious. "Don't ye be leadin'meno wild goose chase!" Johnnie having halted, the other came up to him and seized him by one big sleeve. "Ye tell me one thing, and ye start the opp'site! How's that?"
"I guess I don't know where I am," admitted Johnnie. "Y' see, I don't git out much, and so I don't know my way good."
"Now, what could be honester, Clancy?" chided the bigger man. "Shure, ye can see by the color o' his skin that he's a shut-in.—So, now, square about, little flower peddler, but, oh, go easy! easy! That is, if ye want me t' go along, or, shure, big as I am, and fat——"
"Ye'renotfat, Father!" denied Clancy. They were all under way now, with Johnnie in the middle.
"Well, solid then," amended the other, breathing hard. "Shure, it's me that cuts up a big piece of cloth when it comes t' clothes, which is deceivin' enough, since I'm back from the war. For what's a man—and never mind his size—if his lungs is gone? or goin'?"
Johnnie turned upward a troubled look. "Did y' git hurt in the war?" he asked.
"Well, maybe ye wouldn't call it hurt, exactly," answered the Father. "Shure, they didn't let out anny of the blood of me, but 'twould've been better, I'm thinkin', if they had. No, lad dear, they sent me over a whiff of the gas, the wind bein' right for the nasty business, and I had the bad taste t' swallow it."
As they fared along, Johnnie kept up a steady chatter in a manner that was obviously friendly and cheerful, this in order to make passersby understand that his return was in the nature of another triumph, and that he had not been arrested. As for his look and carriage, they were those of a proud boy.
By the time his companions had learned how matters stood in the flat, the three had reached the stairs and begun a slow climb. With the caution of his kind, the policeman did not allow Johnnie to lead the way. The latter came second in the procession, the priest toiling last, with much puffing and many a grunt.
The progress of the three being so leisurely, there was time for the inhabitants of the building to hear of the interesting pair that were ascending with Johnnie Smith, and to assemble in groups at the landings, while excited chatter wafted the dust which the visitors raised, and the stairs creaked alarmingly.
When the Barber door was reached, the representative of the law paused—as if waiting for the priest to come up. In reality, standing sidewise, one ear close to a panel, he listened to what was going on inside. As Johnnie, with the bouquet waving against his breast, came to a halt at the official heels, he heard it all, too—a roar of threats and curses, loud stamping to and fro across a squeaking floor, while like a sad accompaniment to a harsh tune there sounded a low, frightened weeping.
Johnnie peered up into the policeman's face. Dark as was the hall, he could see that Mr. Clancy's visage was stern. Father Pat was beside them now, steadying himself by a hand on the rickety banister, while he laid the other upon his breast as if to ease his panting. His look was horrified.
The youngest of that trio rejoiced that Big Tom was acting so badly just at this time. It meant that the "rakin'" would surely happen; and after Father Pat had done his part, Johnnie hoped that the policeman would arrest the longshoreman, drag him away to prison, and perhaps even whack him a time or two with his polished stick.
These possibilities were comforting.
OFFICER CLANCY did not wait even to knock once upon the Barber door, but pushed it open sharply—discovering Big Tom and Cis, face to face on the far side of the kitchen table, the latter with wet cheeks, while her shrinking, wilted young figure was swayed backward out of reach of the huge finger which the longshoreman was shaking before her eyes. Beside her, crouched down in his chair, was old Grandpa, peering out between the folds of his blanket like a frightened kitten.
The interruption halted Big Tom halfway of a stormy sentence, and he turned upon the entering officer a countenance dark and working. (As Father Pat said afterward, "Shure, and 'twas as black as anny colored babe's in Cherry Street!") However, that newly shaved visage lightened instantly, paling at sight of the police-blue and the shield.
The officer spoke first. "This kid belong here?" he asked.
"Lives here," admitted Barber, swallowing.
"I take it ye're not a florist," went on Clancy.
"I ain't."
"Ah! In that case,"—firmly—"ye'll not be sendin' anny boy out on to the street t' sell roses: leastways, not without the proper license, which ye can ask for up at City Hall." Next, the patrolman gave Johnnie a friendlyshove toward the middle of the room. "Hand the posies t' yer sister, young man," he commanded.
Johnnie darted to obey, and Cis made a joyous start toward him. Their hands touched, and the roses changed keeper.
Meanwhile Barber had gained back a little of his usual self-confidence. "Oh, all right," he remarked. "But we need money a lot more'n flowers."
"That's as it may be," conceded Clancy, dryly. "But—the law's the law, and I'll just tell ye this much":—he emphasized his statement by pointing the stick—"ye're lucky t' 'scape a fine! Seein' ye're so short o' cash!"
Most men, as Barber liked to boast, did not dare to give the longshoreman any of their "lip." But now he was careful to accept the ultimatum of the officer without a show of temper. "Guess I am," he assented.
Clancy nodded. "And I'll see ye later, Father Pat?" he inquired, giving the priest a meaning glance.
"Please God," replied the Father, settling himself in the morris chair. (He knew when young eyes implored.)
"I'll say good-day t' ye all," went on the policeman. He gave Johnnie a wink and Cis a smile as he went out.
Father Pat now took off his hat. In such cases it was well to "set by" till the storm blew over. "I'm thinkin' I met ye on the docks one day," he observed cordially enough to Big Tom. "'Twas the time there was trouble over the loadin' of theMary Jane."
Barber was chewing. "Y' had that honor," he returned, a trifle sarcastic.
"Ha-ha!" laughed the Father. But there was a flash of something not too friendly in his look. "Honor, was it? I'm glad ye told me! For meself, shure, I can't always be certain whether 'tis that—or maybe just the opp'site!"
"Ican be sure," went on the longshoreman. He suckedhis teeth belligerently. "I know when I'm honored, and also when I'm not."
"Is it like that?" retorted Father Pat smoothly. "Then I'll say ye're smarter than I judged ye was from seein' ye put a lad on to the street t' sell flowers of a Sunday mornin'."
To Cis this passage between the men was all pure agony. She dropped down beside Grandpa's chair, and stayed there, half hidden. But it was not misery for Johnnie. He had rightly guessed what the "rakin'" would be, and for whom. And now it was going forward, and he welcomed it.
It was then that it came over him how different was this newest friend from his other two! One-Eye always left Johnnie puzzled as to his real opinion of the longshoreman, this through saying just the opposite of what he meant. Mr. Perkins, on the other hand, did not express himself at all; in fact, almost ignored Barber's existence. But Father Pat! Not even old Grandpa could be in doubt as to how the priest felt toward the longshoreman.
"Oh, don't you worry about this kid," advised Big Tom. "I git mighty little out o'him."
Father Pat stared. Then, bluntly, "Shure, now, don't tell me that! Ye know, I can see his big hands."
Johnnie's hands, at that moment, were hanging in front of him, the fingers knotted. He glanced down at them. He had never thought of them as being large, but now he realized that they were. What was worse, they seemed to be getting bigger and bigger all of a sudden! The way they were swelling made him part them and slip them behind his back.
"When I was a shaver, I didn't have no time t' be a dude!" asserted Big Tom. "And this kid ain't no better'n me!"
"As a man," answered the Father, "shure, and I hopehe'll be better than the two o' us put t'gether! Because if the boys and girls don't improve upon the older folks, how is this world t' git better, t' advance?" As he spoke, his look went swiftly round the room.
Barber laughed. "Well, I can tell y' one thing about him," he said. "He won't never make a longshoreman—the little runt!"
At that, Father Pat fairly shot to his feet, and taking a forward step, hung over Big Tom, his green eyes black, his freckled face as crimson as his hair. "Runt is it!" he cried. "Runt! And I'll ask ye why, Mr. Tom Barber? Because ye've kept him shut up in this black place! Because ye've cheated him out o' decent food, and fresh air, and the flirtin' up o' his boy's heels! Does he find time t' play? Has he got friends? Not if ye can help it! Oh, I can read all the little story o' him—the sad, starved, pitiful, lonely, story o' him!"
Barber got up slowly, laying down his pipe. "I guess I know a few things I've done for him," he answered angrily. "And I don't want abuse for them, neither! He's got a lot t' be thankful for!"
"Thankful, yer Grandmother!" raged the Father, but somewhat breathlessly. "I don't want t' hear yer excuses, nor what ye've done! I can see through ye just as if ye was a pane o' glass! It's the carin' for the old man without a penny o' cost that ye've thought about! It's the makin' o' a few flowers for a few cents!"—he pointed to the table—"when the lad ought t' be at his books! Greed's at the bottom o' what ye do—not only workin' the lad too hard for his strength, but cheatin' him out o' his school!"
"I guess that's all," said Barber, quietly. "I'll ask y' t' cut it."
"I'll cut nothin'!" cried the priest. "These five years ye've been waitin' for a man t' come and tell ye the truth.Well, I'm only what's left o' a man, but the truth is on me tongue! And it's comin' off, Tom Barber,—it's comin' off! Shut up another lad like ye've shut him, thrash him, and half starve him in his mind and his body, and see what ye'd get! Ye'd get an idiot, that's what ye'd get! The average lad couldn't stand it! Not the way this boy has! Because why? I'll tell ye: ye've made his home a prison, and ye've dressed him like a beggar, but ye've never been able t' keep his brain and his soul from growin'! Ye've never been able t' lockthemup! Nor dress them badly! And God be thanked for it!"
"A-a-a-w!" snarled Barber. "I wish allIhad t' do was t' go from flat t' flat and talk sermons!"
"Ye wish that, do ye?" cried the Father, rumpling his red hair from the back of his neck upward. "Well, shure, ye don't know what ye're talkin' about! For there isn't annything harder than talkin' t' folks that haven't the sense or the decency t' do what's right. And also—no rascal pines t' be watched!"
Barber stared. "What's y're grudge?" he demanded.
"A grudge is what I've got!" replied Father Pat. "It's the kind I hold against anny man who mistreats children! And while I live and draw breath, which won't be long, I'll fight that kind o' a man whenever I meet him! And I'll charge him with his sin, so help me God, before the very bar o' Heaven!"
Big Tom shrugged. "Y' ain't a well man," he said; "and then again, y' happen t' be a priest. For both which reasons I don't want no trouble with y'. So I'll be obliged if y'll hire a hall, or find somebody else t' scold, and let up on me for a change. This is Sunday, and I'd like a little rest."
Father Pat went a foot nearer to the longshoreman. "Because I'm a priest," he answered, "I'll not be neglectin' me duty. Ye can drive away scoutmasters, and othersthat don't feel they've got a right t' tell ye the truth in yer own house, but"—he tapped his chest—"here's one man yewon'tdrive away!"
Big Tom reached for his pipe and his hat. "Well, stay then!" he returned.
"Stay? That I will!" cried the Father. "The lad and the girl, they've got a friend that's goin' t' stick as long as his lungs'll let him."
"Good!" mocked the longshoreman. "Fine!" He pushed his hat down over the stubble of his hair, and went out, slamming the door.
A LONG moment of breathless silence—while four pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon the hall door, and as many pairs of ears strained to follow the creak and clump of Big Tom's departure. The sound of his steps died away. Another, and a longer, wait, and the door moved and rattled, that signal which marked the opening and shutting of the area door three flights below. The longshoreman was really gone. Cis laid her forehead against an arm of the wheel chair, and burst into tears, clinging to old Grandpa, and trembling, and frightening him into weeping; whereupon Johnnie hurried to them, and alternately patted them comfortingly, and Father Pat came to stand over the three.
"Dear! dear! dear!" exclaimed the priest. "But ain't I glad that I came, though! Shure, the big baboon was ugly! Ha-ha-a-a! And when he's like that, faith, and how he throws the coconuts!"
That fetched the smiles, even from Cis. And, "Oh-ho! Here comes the sun!" cried the Father, beaming joyously at them all. "Shure, we've had the thunderstorm, and the air's clear, and so all the kittens dear can come out o' their corners, and frisk a bit! Faith, I wasn't half as mad as I sounded. No, I wasn't, old gentleman! (And what's that he's holdin' on to? Bless me soul, is it a doll?)" Then having taken up Letitia, and turned her about, and chuckled over her, and given her into Grandpa's outstretched hands again, "It's only that our rampin' Mr. Barber," he explained, "wouldn't understand me if I didn't give him a bit o' the rough edge o' me tongue—no, nor respect me, neither! So I laid it on a mite thick!—Oh, that man! Say, he'd sell the tears right out o' yer eye! Yes, he would! He'd sell yer eyelashes t' make a broom for a fly!"
"Big Tom, he makes me awful 'fraid sometimes," confessed Johnnie. "But he makes Cis lots 'fraider, 'cause she's only a girl."
"A girl!" cried the Father. "And ye think bein' a girl is anny good reason for bein' afraid? Faith, little friend, have ye not got hold o' a wrong notion entirely about girls?" Then seeing that here was an opportunity to take the thoughts of these two harried ones away from themselves, "Children dear," he went on, "all this about girls who are afraid reminds me o' a certain story. 'Twas in Belgium it happened, a few years back, and in the city o' Brussels, which is the capital. Oh, 'tis a grand and a sorrowful story! So! Come now!" He wheeled Grandpa to a place beside the morris chair, signed Cis to take the kitchen chair, helped Johnnie to a perch on the table, and sat again, the others drawn about his red head like so many moths around a cheerful lamp.
It was just as the tale of Edith Cavell ended that, most opportunely, who should come stealing in but Mrs. Kukor, pushing the door open with a slippered foot, for each hand held a dish. The exciting events which had transpired in the Barber flat being common property up and down the area building, naturally she knew them; also, leaned out of her own window, she had heard more than enough. The paleness of her round face told how anxious she was.
The priest stood up. "I'm Father Patrick Mungovan, at yer service, ma'am," he said, bowing gravely.
Mrs. Kukor first wiped both plump hands upon a blacksateen apron. Then she extended one of them to the priest. "Glat to meet!" she declared heartily. "Und glat you wass come!"
The Father shook hands warmly. "Shure, ma'am," he declared, "our two young folks is likely not t' suffer for lookin' after from now on, I'm thinkin', what with our little League o' Nations."
Tears welled into Mrs. Kukor's black eyes. "Over Chonnie und Cis," she declared, "all times I wass full of love.Only"—she lifted a short, fat finger—"nefer I haf talk my Hebrew religions mit!"
Father Pat gave her another bow, and a gallant one. "Faith, Mrs. Kukor," said he, "the good Lord I worship was a Hebrew lad from the hills o' Judea."
Next, Mrs. Kukor had a look at the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled with many excited exclamations of delight. After that, there was ice cream and raisin cake, enough for all. Every one served, the priest and Mrs. Kukor were soon chatting away in the friendliest fashion.
It was then that a regrettable accident occurred. In spite of the fact that the ice cream was in a melting condition, and the cake deliciously soft and crumbling, one of those several dental bridges of the Father's suddenly became detached, as it were, from its moorings, and had to be rolled up in one corner of a handkerchief and consigned to a pocket. Amid general condolences then, the priest explained that the happening was not wholly unexpected, since, in choosing a dentist, he had let his heart, rather than his head, guide his selection, and had given the work to an old and struggling man whose methods were undoubtedly obsolete. "But ye see," he concluded, "I knew at the time that the work would far outlast the necessity for it, since I'll not be needin' anny teeth very long"—a statement the full meaning of which fortunately escaped the comprehension of his two young hearers. "Butye might say," he went on, "that neither the cake nor the cream have put a strain on that bridge, so I'll not be blamin' the dentist. For ye see, it's like this: when I've somethin' betwixt me teeth that's substantial, the danger to the bridges is far less. It's when I've nothin' that I do them the most damage, havin' so much grip t' me jaws, and not annything t' work it out on."
Mrs. Kukor now rose to take her leave, explaining how it happened that she did not want to have Mr. Barber discover her there, since, if the longshoreman were to decide that she was interfering in any way—too much—he might, she feared, remove his household to some other, and distant, flat, where she could not be near the children—oy! oy! oy!
Father Pat gave her his address. "Some day," he declared, "ye might be wantin' t' send me a picture post card, in which case ye'd need t' know where I live"—a remark which made Johnnie believe that the Father must be particularly fond of picture post cards! "But now and again, I'll drop in t' see ye," promised the priest, "and t' have a cup o' kosher tea! Shure, ma'am, in anny troublesome matter, two heads is better than one, even if one has been gassed!"
Mrs. Kukor gone, Father Pat began to take thought of his own leaving. But first he set about cheering up his new, young friends, who were subdued, to say the least, this in spite of the refreshments. "Now, shure, and there's things about this place which could be far, far worse," he asserted. "In this shady bit o' flat, ye're shut up, I grant it. But consider what ye're shut away from—ugly things, like fightin' and callin' names"—his argument being intended chiefly for Johnnie.
"And I don't mind about my old clothes," declared the latter stoutly. "Anyhow, I don't mind 'cause they're raggy. All I'm sorry for is that my rags don'tfit."
Afterward he concluded that there must have been something rather sensible about this remark of his—something calculated to win approval. For the Father suddenly reached out and took Johnnie into his arms, and gave him a bearish hug, and laughed, and wiped the green eyes (which were brimming), and laughed again, finally falling into a coughing fit that sent Johnnie pell-mell for a cup of water and made Cis wait in concern beside the morris chair.
The cough quieted soon, and again Father Pat was able to talk. "Did ye ever hear another lad like him?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Ah, God love him! He doesn't mind his rags, only he wishes that they fit! Dear, dear, rich, little, poor boy!"
After he was gone, Johnnie and Cis sat in silence for a good while, their young hearts being too full, and their brains too busy, for speech. But at last, "Oh, why didn't we ever know him before!" mourned Cis. "He lives close by, and he's not afraid ofanything!"
"He's my friend for life!" vowed Johnnie. "And, oh, Cis, this is who's like Galahad!—not Mister Perkins atall!Mister Perkins is like—like Sir Percival, that's whohe'slike. But Father Pat (don't y'lovethe name!) he could sit on the Per'lous Seat, y' betcher life!—Oh, ifonlyhis hair wasn't red!"
When she had assured him that red was a most desirable color for hair, since it meant a splendid fighting spirit, he had to know all she could tell him about priests, which was a good deal. "They can marry you, and they can bury you," she began. "And they preach, and pray about a hundred times as much as anybody else, and that's one reason why he's so good. If you've done anything wicked, though, you've got to tell a priest about it, and——"
"I'll tell him about the toothbrush," promised Johnnie."I won't mind tellin' him, some way or other, anyhow, and it's bothered me, Cis, quite a lot—oh, yes, it has!"