A CHORUS of happy cries greeted him: "Dearest!"—"Oh, gee!"—"Satan's defeated!"—"Goli'th wass licked, und David wass boss!"—"Whoopee!"
Then, great excitement. Cis ran to Mr. Perkins, laughing, "Oh, you're safe! You're safe!" Whereupon he kissed her fingers again; and Johnnie, on his feet now, felt that here, indeed, was a young knight come from defending his lady. And he asked himself why he had ever thought that Mr. Perkins was too much of a gentleman to be awe-inspiring.
Meanwhile, Father Pat and Mrs. Kukor were shaking hands like mad, and mingling their broken English in a torrent of gratitude. To their voices, Grandpa, out of sight beyond the bedroom door, added his, not knowing what the celebration was about, yet cackling hilariously.
As for One-Eye, his conduct was extraordinary. Suddenly showing new life, once more he took off his coat, found his hat and gauntlets, flung all under him, and upon them did a grotesque dance of joy. And "Yip! yip! yip! yip!" he shouted. "Y' tole him he'd need his breath! Oh, peaches-'n'-cream! Oh, cute baby boy! Oh, who's on the quiltnow?"
"One-Eye, did ye ever see annything like it in Kansas?" demanded the Father triumphantly.
"Wy-o-ming! Wy-o-ming!" roared the cowboy. "Yip! yip! yip! yee-ow!"
Johnnie was no less delighted, but he was still too weak to do very much. He contented himself with taking a turn up and down the room, walking like Mr. Perkins, holding his head like Mr. Perkins (so that an imaginarypince-nezshould not fall off), and talking to himself in true scoutmaster style—"To insure a long life, to defend oneself, to protect others. Training, that's the idea! Be prepared!"
Next, he lost himself in a glorious think. This time it was far in the future. He was big and strong and brown. And he saw himself rising quietly in the very teeth of some stalwart villain to say that the matter of the beautiful young lady concerned (dimly she was a larger, but a perfect, copy of the little girl on the fire escape) would be taken up downstairs, where a fight would not disturb poor, old Mr. Tom Barber.
At that he fell to doing his exercises; first, the arm-movements—up, down! up down! then the leg—out, back! out, back! adding a bend or two of his sore body by way of good measure, and resolving to do better and better along these lines every morning of his life from now on.
Mr. Perkins was the only person who was perfectly calm. He found his coat and put it on; he adjusted his glasses. In fact, the scoutmaster, returned unscathed from his battle, might have been taken as a model for all victors. For he did not smile exultantly, did not swagger one step, but was grave and modest. "Put on your hat, sweetheart," he said to Cis. His voice was deep and tender.
At once there was hurry and bustle. Mrs. Kukor gave one prodigious doll-rock which turned her square about, and she disappeared into the tiny room, evidently to help with the packing. "Oh, but I'm all ready!" declared Cis, following the little Jewish lady. "And, Father Pat, you won't mind coming with us?" asked Mr. Perkins. "I'll do that with pleasure," answered the priest, heartily.
Johnnie felt a touch on his arm. "Sonny!" One-Eye whispered. "Can't y' hear somethin'? Listen!"
All listened. From the area below unmistakable cheers were rising, and taunting shouts. They came booming through the kitchen window. Barber was crossing the brick pavement to the door of the building, and his neighbors were triumphing in his defeat.
Father Pat came to Johnnie. "Lad dear," he said, "tell me: as ye hear 'em yell at him, and all on account o' what he did t' Cis and yerself, and because they're glad he's been whipped,—tell me, scout boy, how d' ye feel towards him in yer own heart?"
"We-e-ell,—" began Johnnie; "we-e-ell—" and stopped. Countless times he had punished Big Tom in his own way; and had looked ahead to the hour when, grown-up, and the longshoreman's physical equal, he could measure out to the latter punishment of a substantial kind. Yet now that Mr. Perkins had done just this, where was the overwhelming satisfaction? He was glad, of course, that Mr. Perkins had come out victor, and had not been beaten as One-Eye had been beaten; but so far as he himself was concerned, the truth was that Big Tom's mortification was dust in his mouth, and ashes, though, somehow, he shrank from admitting it. "Well, Father Pat," he added faintly, "I—I guess I—I'm not—er—what y'd callglad."
"Ah, me grand lad!" exclaimed the priest. "Ye feel like I want ye t' feel! Because that's how a fine, decent ladoughtt' feel! Not glad! Not gloryin' over a bully that's had his desert! Not holdin' on t' hate once the fight is done! Lad dear, ye don't ever disappoint Father Pat! And, oh, he thanks God for it!"
Johnnie felt boyishly shy and awkward then, looking at the floor and wriggling his toes, and taking back into his cheeks quite a supply of color in the form of blushes.
One-Eye also broke forth with commendations. "That'sthe ticket!" he cried. "No crowin'! Aw, Johnnie, y're a blamed white kid!" Whereupon, feeling around close to the floor till he located one of Johnnie's ankles, he made his way up to those narrow—and sore—shoulders, and gave them such a hearty slap of approbation that tears started in a certain pair of yellow-gray eyes.
"I'm glad, too, that you feel as you do about it," said Mr. Perkins, earnestly. "And, Johnnie, have you done your good turn yet to-day?"
"No, sir," answered Johnnie, apologetically. "But y' see, I been tied t' the table, and also I jus' only come to, and——"
"I understand," broke in the scoutmaster quickly. "But perhaps when Mr. Barber comes in—his face, you know. Could you wash it up a bit?"
"Ye-e-e-es, sir,"—reluctantly; for young as he was, Johnnie realized that whatever his own feelings toward the longshoreman might be, they were no gauge of the feelings of the longshoreman toward him. However, dutifully he went to find the wash basin, and fill it; and he accepted from Mr. Perkins a most immaculate wash cloth, this one of those wonderful handkerchiefs which had colored borders.
He was prepared for his good turn not a moment too soon. For the stairs outside were creaking under slow and heavy steps. "The conq'rin' hero!" announced One-Eye, with a blind, but sweepin' bow in the general direction of the on-comer.
"Sh!" cautioned Mr. Perkins.
One-Eye did a comical collapse upon the mattress, his reinhand, as he chose to term his left, well stuffed into his mustached mouth. The others were silent, too—as the door opened and Big Tom came crawling in.
This was a woefully changed Big Tom. His great, hairy face was darker than usual, what with the batteringit had received, and the blood which was drying upon it. There was a scarlet gap across one of those prominent ears, the lobe of which was as red as if set with a ruby. As he swung the door and advanced unsteadily, he tried to keep his face averted from those in the room, and hitched petulantly at a sleeve of his shirt, which had been ripped from end to end by a blow. Spent, bent, beaten, half-blind, puffing pink foam from his mouth at each breath, he stumbled toward the bedroom. The back of one hand was cut and raw, where he had driven it with all his might against a side of the old printing shop, hoping to strike the scoutmaster. From it fell drops which made small, round, black spots on the dusty floor.
At sight of the big man, so cowed and helpless, "God save us!" breathed Father Pat, astounded, and sat down.
"Mister Barber!" It was Johnnie, timidly. Yet he forced himself to go close to the longshoreman, and held the brimming basin well forward. "Can I—will y' let me wash y'r face?"
"Lemmealone!" almost screamed Big Tom. With a curse, and without turning his head, he made one of those flail-like sweeps with an arm, struck the basin, and sent it full in the face of the boy. It drenched the big, old shirt, emptied out the wet handkerchief, and whirled to the floor with a clatter.
Then, mumbling another curse, the longshoreman spat, and a large, brown tooth went skipping across the room. Its owner lumbered against the bedroom door, bumping it with knees and forehead, opened it awkwardly against himself, half fell upon the wheel chair as he crossed the sill, swore louder than ever, and slammed the door at his heels, shutting from the sight of the others his wounds and his injured pride.
For a little, no one said anything. Johnnie, with the water dripping from his yellow hair, was no longer in thatgenerous, good-scout state of mind. On the contrary, he was enjoying some satisfaction over Big Tom's plight. How like a bully was his foster father acting!—bellowing with delight when he overcame a man smaller than himself, and one who had poor sight; and raging when a second smaller man met and bested him in a fair fight. But Johnnie made no comment as he picked up the handkerchief and the basin, wrung out the linen square and methodically hung it up to dry, and put away the pan.
"Man dear," whispered Father Pat to the scoutmaster, "don't ye ever be visitin' here agin! For, shure, Barber'll kill ye!"
"Oh!"—Johnnie was frightened. "And maybe he'll have y' 'rested!"
"No, old fellow," said Mr. Perkins, reassuringly. "He's lost out, and he's not likely to advertise it. —But I'm sorry about that tooth." He hunted it, found it, and examined it carefully. "It's a front tooth, too." He dropped it into the stove.
"Too-ooth?" drawled One-Eye, suddenly sitting up. Not being able to see, he had not been able to note the effect of the scoutmaster's art upon Big Tom. But now, understanding a little of the damage Mr. Perkins had done, the cowboy began to giggle like a girl, wrapped his arms about his fur-covered knees, laid his head upon them, and set his body to rocking hilariously. "Oh, gosh, a tooth!" he cried. "Oh! Ouch! And he begged me t' save this young feller's life!"
Mrs. Kukor came stealing out of the tiny room. "He wass fierce!" she declared, under her breath. "Nefer before wass he soch-like!"
"Oh, Mister Perkins, hurry up and git away!" begged Johnnie. (Suppose Big Tom should come bursting out of the bedroom to renew the trouble?) "It's been awfulhere ever since yesterday and it seems like I jus' couldn't stand no more!"
"All right, scout boy." Mr. Perkins took a paper from an inner pocket of his coat, and from another a fountain pen which Barber had not damaged. He handed both to Father Pat, who rose at once and boldly entered the bedroom. "That's the consent," the scoutmaster explained to Johnnie. He got One-Eye into a chair and bandaged his swollen eye in the masterly manner one might logically expect from the leader of a troop. This addition to the cowboy's already picturesque get-up gave him an altogether rakish and daring touch.
By the time the bandaging was done, here was Father Pat again, all wide, Irish smiles. "Signed!" said he. "And, shure, Mr. Perkins, he paid ye a grand compliment! Faith, and he did! It was after he scratched his name. 'That dude,' said he, 'if he was t' work on the docks,' said he, 'would likely out-lift the whole lot of us.' Think o' it! Those were his very words!"
Cis came forth from her room now, hatted, and carrying what she was taking—a few toilet articles and one or two cherished belongings of her mother's, all carefully wrapped in a shoe box. That it was pitiful, her having to go with so little, occurred neither to her nor to Johnnie. But it was just as well that they did not understand, as the older people in the kitchen did, how tragic that shoe box was.
She was carrying something which she was not taking: Edwarda, until recently so treasured and beloved. She laid the doll upon the oilcloth, glanced at One-Eye, and put a finger to her lips. "You can give it to some little girl, Johnnie," she said; "—some real poor little girl."'
"All right." (He had decided on the instant who should have Edwarda!) "But I'd go 'long fast, if I was you," he added, with a fearsome look toward the bedroom.
Cis came to him. "Mrs. Kukor'll be right upstairs," she reminded (the little Jewish lady was trotting out and away, not trusting herself to look on at their farewells).
"And I'll drop in often," interposed Father Pat; "—please God!"
One-Eye divined what was going forward. He got up uneasily. "Dang it, if I ain't sorry I'm goin' West so soon again!" he fretted. "But I'll tote y' back with me some day, sonny—see if I don't! Also, I'll peek in oncet 'r twicet afore I go—that is, if my lamp gits better."
"All right," said Johnnie again. He had but one idea now: to get every one safely away. So he was not sad.
"You—you can have my room now," Cis went on, swallowing, and trying to smile.
"Thank y'."
They shook hands, then, both a little awkwardly. Next, she bent to kiss him. Boylike, he was not eager for that, with Father Pat and Mr. Perkins looking on. So he backed away deprecatingly, and she succeeded only in touching her lips to a tuft of his bright hair. But at once, forgetting manly pride, he wound his arms about her, and laid his hurt cheek against her shoulder; and she patted his sore back gently, and dropped a tear or two among the tangles brushing her face.
When he drew away from her, he saw that neither Father Pat nor Mr. Perkins were watching them. The former had a hand across his eyes (was he praying, or just being polite?); while the scoutmaster, hands behind him, and chin in air, was staring out of the window.
"I'm ready, Algy,"—Cis tried to say it as casually as if she were going only to the corner. She joined Father Pat and One-Eye at the door.
Now it was Mr. Perkins's turn. He came over and held out a hand. "Well, John Blake," he said (he had never used "John" before), "you'll be in our thoughts every hourof the day—you, and Grandpa. You know you're not losing a sister; you're gaining a brother."
They shook hands then, as men should. But a moment later, by an impulse that was mutual, each put his arms about the other in a quick embrace.
"My little brother!"
"My—my big brother!"
"Hate to leave you, scout boy."
"Aw, that's all right. Y' know me, Mister Perkins. I don't mind this old flat. 'Cause,—well, I don't ever have t' stay in it if I don't want t'. I mean, I can be wherever I want t' be. And—and I'm with Aladdin most o' the time, 'r King Arthur. And this next day 'r so, I'm plannin' t' spend on Treasure Island." All this was intended to make them feel more cheerful. Now he smiled; and what with the shine of his tow hair, his light brows and his flaxen lashes, combined with the flash of his yellow-flecked eyes and white teeth, the effect was as if sunlight were falling upon that brave, freckleless, blue-striped face.
The four went then, the Father guiding One-Eye, and Cis with Mr. Perkins. They went, and the door closed upon them, and a hard moment was come to test his spirit—that moment just following the parting. Fortunately for him, however, Grandpa demanded attention. Beyond the bedroom door the little, old soldier, as if he guessed that something had happened, set up a sudden whimpering, and tried to turn the knob and come out.
Johnnie brought him, giving not a glance to the great figure bulking on Barber's bed, and shutting the door as soft as he could. He fed the old man, talking to him cheerily all the while. "Cis is goin' t' be married," he recounted, "and have, oh, a swell weddin' trip. And then some day, when she gits back, she'll pop in here again, and tell us a-a-all about it! So now you go s'eepy-s'eepy, and when y' wake, Johnnie'll have some dandy supper f'r y'!"
His boy's spirit buoyed up by this picture of great happiness for another, he began to sing as he wheeled Grandpa backward and forward—to sing under his breath, however, so as not to disturb Big Tom! He sang out of his joy over the joy of those two who were just gone out to their new life; and he sang to bring contentment to the heart of the little, old soldier, and sleep to those pale, tired eyes:
"Oh, Cis, she's goin' t' be Mrs. Algernon Perkins,And live in a' awful stylish flat.There's a carpet and curtains in the flat,And a man 'most as good as Buckle t' do all the work.And she's goin' t' have a velvet dress, I think, maybe,And plenty o' good things t' eat all the time—Butter ev-ry day, I guess, and eggs, too,And nice, red apples, if she wants 'em——"
And so, caroling on and on, he put old Grandpa to sleep.
But how his song would have died in his throat if he could have guessed that, of the four who had just left,—those four whom he loved so sincerely—one, and oh, what a dear, dear one, was never to pass across the threshold again!
EMPTY!
He did not enter the tiny room. Now, all at once, it seemed a sacred place, having for so long sheltered her who was sweet and fine. And he felt instinctively that the blue-walled retreat was not for him; that he should not stretch himself out in his soiled, ragged clothes on that dainty couch-shelf where she had lain.
He stood on the threshold to look in. How beautiful it was! From to-day forward, would she truly have another any handsomer? The faint perfume of it (just recently she had acquired a fresh stock of orris root) was like a breath from some flower-filled garden—such a garden as he had read about inThe Story of Aladdin. And yes, the little cell itself was like one of Aladdin's caskets from which had been taken a precious jewel.
Just now it was a casket very much in disarray, for Cis had tumbled it in wind-storm fashion as she made ready to leave, carelessly throwing down several things that she had formerly handled delicately: the paper roses, the sliver of mirror, the pretty face of a moving-picture favorite. As for that box flounced with bright crepe paper, it was ignominiously heaved to one side. And that cherished likeness of Mr. Roosevelt was hanging slightly askew.
But Johnnie did not set straight the photograph of his hero, or stoop to pick anything up. He could think of just one thing: she was gone!
And she would never come back—never, never, never, never! He began to repeat the word, as he and Cis had been wont to repeat words, trying hard to realize the whole of their meaning: "Never! never! never! never." And once more there came over him that curious lost feeling that he had suffered after Aunt Sophie was gone in the clanging ambulance. Once more, too, he grew rebellious. "Oh, why does ev'rything have t' go 'n' bust up!" he questioned brokenly, voicing again the eternal protest of youth against an unexpected, pain-dealing shift in Life's program.
That time he had run away, she had promised that she would never leavehim!—had said it with many nevers. "And she ain't ever before stayed out in the evenin' like this," he told himself. No, not in all the years he had been at the Barber flat.
However, he felt no resentment toward her for going. How could he? Now that she was away, she seemed unspeakably dear, faultlessly perfect.
But, left behind, what was he? what did he have? what would become of him? To all those questions there was only one answer: Nothing. He was alone with a helpless, childish, old man and that other. "And I've tried 'n' tried!" he protested (he meant that he had tried to please Barber, tried to do his work better, tried to deserve more consideration from the longshoreman). And this was what had come of all his striving: Cis had been driven away.
"Oh, nothin' worse can happen t' me!" he declared despairingly. "Nothin'! nothin'!" What a staff she had always been, and how much he had leaned upon that staff, he did not suspect till now, when it was wrenched from under his hand. He had a fuller understanding, too, of what a comfort she had steadily been—she, the only bright and beautiful thing in the dark, poor flat! And to think that, boylike, he had ever shrunk out from under her caressing fingers, or fled from her proffered kiss! O his darling comrade and friend! O little mother and sister in one!
"Cis!" he faltered. "Cis!"
An almost intolerable sense of loss swept him, like a wave brimming the cup of his grief. His forehead seemed to be bulging, as if it would burst. His heart was bursting, too. And something was tearing, clawlike, at his throat and at his vitals. Just where the lower end of his breastbone left off was the old, awful, aching, gnawing, "gone" feeling. Much in his short life he had found hard to bear; but never anything so appalling as this! If only he might cry a little!
"Sir Gawain, he c-cried," he remembered, "when he found out he was f-fightin' his own b-brother. And Sir G-Gareth, he c-cried too." Also, no law of the twelve in the Handbook forbade a scout to weep.
His eyes closed, his mouth lengthened out pathetically, his cheeks puckered, his chin drew up grotesquely, trembling as if tortured; then he bent his head and began to sob, terribly, yet silently, for he feared to waken Grandpa. Down his hurt face streamed the tears, to fall on the big, old shirt, and on his feet, while he leaned against the door-jamb, a drooping, shaking, broken-hearted little figure.
"Oh, I can't git along without her!" he whispered. "I can't stand it! Oh, I want her back! I want her back!"
When he had cried away the sharp edge of his grief, a deliciously sad mood came over him. InThe Legends of King Arthur, more than one grieving person had succumbed to sorrow. He wondered if he would die of his; and he saw himself laid out, stricken, on a barge, attended by three Queens, who were putting to sea to take him to the Vale of Avilion.
The picture brought him peace.
There followed one of his thinks. He brought Cis backinto the little room, seated her on her narrow bed, with her slender shoulders leaned against the excelsior pillow which once she had prized. In her best dress, which was white, she showed ghostily among the shadows. But he could see her violet eyes clearly, and the look in them was tender and loving.
He held out his arms to her.
Somewhere, far off, a bell rang. It was like a summons. The wraith of his own making vanished. He wiped his eyes, now with one fringed sleeve, now with the other, stooped and felt round just inside the little room for his scrap of mattress and the quilt, took them up, softly shut the door, and turned about.
That same moment the hall door began slowly to open, propelled from without by an unseen hand. "St!" came a low warning. Next, a dim hand showed itself, reaching in at the floor level with a large yellow bowl. It placed the bowl to one side, disappeared, returned again at once with a goodish chunk ofschwarzbrod, laid the bread beside the bowl, traveled up to the outside knob, and drew the door to.
He knew that the dim hand was plump and brown, and that it belonged to the little Jewish lady, who never yet had been forgetful of him, who was always prompt with motherly help. He knew that; and yet, as he watched it all, there was something of a sweet mystery about it, and he was reminded of that wonderful arm, clothed in white samite, which had come thrusting up out of the lake to give the sword Excalibur to great King Arthur.
He did not go to get what had been left (noodles, he guessed, tastily thickening a broth). Grandpa was already fed for the night, and asleep in the wheel chair, where Johnnie intended to leave him, not liking to rap on the bedroom door and disturb Big Tom. As for his own appetite, it seemed to have deserted him forever.
Noiselessly he put down his bedding beside the table. And it was then that he made out, by the faint light coming in at the window, the two dolls, Letitia and Edwarda, huddled together on the oilcloth. Letitia, small, old, worn out in long service to her departed mistress, had one sawdust arm thrown across Edwarda. And Edwarda, proud though she was, and beautiful in her silks and laces, had a smooth, round, artfully jointed arm thrown across Letitia. It was as if each was comforting the other!
Johnnie picked up the old doll. Somehow she seemed closer and dearer to him than the new one. Perhaps—who knew?—she, also, was mourning the absent beloved. (If there was any feeling in her, she had been inconsolable this long time, what with being cast aside for a grander rival.) "Well, Letitia," he whispered, "here we are, you and—and me!"
It was growing dark in the kitchen. Besides, no one was there to mark his weakness and taunt him with it. He put his face against faithful Letitia's faded dress—that dress which Cis herself had made, pricking her pink fingers scandalously in the process, and had washed and ironed season after season. That was it! He loved the old doll the better because she was a part of Cis.
"Oh, dear Letitia!" he whispered again, and strained the doll to his heart.
Then he took up Edwarda, who opened her eyes with a sharp click. Edwarda, favorite of her young owner, smelled adorably—like the tiny room, like the birthday roses, like apples. And her dainty presence, exhaling the familiar scent of the dressing-table box, brought Cis even nearer to him than had Letitia. With a choking exclamation, he caught the new doll to him along with the old, and held both tight.
Then dropping to the mattress, he laid the pair side by side before crumpling down with them, digging his noseinto one of Edwarda's fragrant sleeves. The instant her head struck the bed, Edwarda had clicked her eyes shut, as if quite indifferent to all that had happened that day (not to speak of the previous night), and had fallen asleep like a shot. Not so the sterling Letitia, who lay staring, open-eyed, at the ceiling.
But Johnnie, worn with emotion, weak from yesterday's whipping, sick and weary from last night's long hours across the table edge, sank into a deep and merciful and repairing sleep.
HE awoke a changed boy. How it had come about, or why, he did not try to reason; but on opening his gray eyes at dawn, he felt distinctly two astonishing differences in himself: first, his sorrow over Cis's going seemed entirely spent, as if it had taken leave of him some time in the night; second, and more curious than the other, along with that sorrow had evidently departed all of his old fear of Big Tom!
The fact that Johnnie no longer stood in dread of Barber was, doubtless, due to the fact that he had seen the giant outmatched and brought to terms. He hated him still (perhaps even more than ever); yet holding him in contempt, did not indulge in a single revenge think. He understood that, with Cis away, the longshoreman needed him as he had never needed him before. So Barber would not dare to be ugly or cruel again, lest he lose Johnnie too. "If I followed Cis where'd he be?" the boy asked himself. "Huh! He better be careful!"
As to Cis, now that he had had a good rest, it was easy for him to see that this change which had come into her life was a thing to be grateful for, not a matter to be mourned about. After her trouble with Barber, she could not stay on in the flat and be happy. Granting this, how fortunate it was that she could at once marry the man she loved. (And what a man!)
He saw her in that splendid, imaginary apartment inwhich he had long ago installed Mr. Perkins. And was he, John Blake, wishing that she would stay in a tiny, if beautiful, room without a window?
"Aw, shucks, no!" he cried. "I don't want y' back! I miss y', but I'mawfulglad y'r gone! And I don't mind bein' left here."
He felt hopeful, ambitious, independent.
He rose with a will. He was stiff, just at first, but strong and steady on his feet. As in the past he had never made a habit of pitying himself, he did not pity himself now, but took his aches and pains as he had taken them many a time before, that is, by dismissing them from his mind. He was hungry. He was eager for his daily wash. He wanted to get at his morning exercises, and take with them a whiff of the outdoors coming in at the window. By a glance at his patch of sky he could tell that this whiff would be pleasant. For how clear and blue was that bit of Heaven which he counted as a personal belonging! And just across the area the sun was already beginning to wash all the roofs with its aureate light.
Three sparrows hailed him from the window ledge, shrilly demanding crumbs. Crumbs made him think of Mrs. Kukor's stealthy gift. Sure enough, the yellow bowl held soup. In the soup was spaghetti—the wide, ribbony, slippery kind he especially liked, coiled about in a broth which smelled deliciously of garlic. As for the black bread, some nibbling visitor of the night had helped himself to one corner of it, and this corner, therefore, went at once to the birds.
"My goodness!" soliloquized Johnnie. "How the mice do love Mrs. Kukor's bread!" And he could not blame them. Itwasso good!
Then, a trifle startled, he noted that the wheel chair was not in the kitchen; but guessed at once that Barber had quietly rolled Grandpa into the bedroom at a late hour.Next, his roving glance dropped back to the old mattress, and he caught sight of the dolls. Forgetting what a comfort they had been to him the evening before, this while feeling boyishly ashamed and foolish at having had them with him, in a panic he caught them up and flung them, willy-nilly, out of sight upon Cis's couch; after which, looking sheepish, and wondering if Big Tom had, by any chance, seen them, he put away his bedding, filled the teakettle, and reached down the package of oatmeal.
It was not till he started to build a fire that he remembered! In the fire box still was all that remained of his uniform, his books, and the Carnegie medal. He lifted a stove lid; then as a mourner looks down into a grave that has received a dear one, so, for a long, sad moment, he gazed into the ashes. "Oh, my stories!" he faltered. "Oh, my peachy suit o' clothes!"
But it was the medal he hunted. On pressing the ashes through into the ash-box, something fell with a clear tinkle, and he dug round till he found a burned and blackened disk. Fire had harmed it woefully. That side bearing the face of its donor was roughened and scarred, so that no likeness of Mr. Carnegie survived; but on the other side, near to the rim, several words still stood out clearly—that a man lay down his life for his friends.
After more poking around he found all the metal buttons off the uniform, each showing the scout device, for, being small, the buttons had dropped into the ashes directly their hold upon the cloth was loosened by the flames, and so escaped serious damage. Also, following a more careful search, he discovered—the tooth.
The clock alarm rang, and he surmised that Big Tom had wound it when he came out for Grandpa.
"John!"
Somehow that splintered bit of Barber's tusk made Johnnie feel more independent than ever. With it betweena thumb and finger, he dared be so indifferent to the summons that he did not reply at once. Instead, he took the buttons to the sink and rinsed them; rinsed the tooth, too. Then he put the medal into the shallow dish holding the dead rose leaves, filled a cracked coffee cup with the buttons, and tossed the tooth into the drawer of the kitchen table.
"John!"—an anxious John this time, as if the longshoreman half feared the boy was gone.
"I'm up."
"Wish y'd come here."
Johnnie smiled grimly as he went. That "wish" was new! Always heretofore it had been "You do this" and "You do that." Evidently something of a change had also been wrought in Big Tom! The bedroom door was ajar an inch or two. Through the narrow crack Johnnie glimpsed Grandpa, in his chair, ready to be trundled out. But Barber was lying down, his face half turned away.
"Wheel the old man into the kitchen," said the latter as he heard Johnnie. He spoke with a lisp (that tooth!), and his voice sounded weak. "And then bring me somethin' t' eat, will y'?"
Having said Yes without a Sir, Johnnie wagged his head philosophically, the while he steered the chair skilfully across the sill. "Plenty o' good turns t' do now," he told himself; "and all o' 'em forhim!"
But—a scout is faithful. He built the fire and cooked a tasty meal—toast, with the grease of bacon trimmings soaking it, coffee, and rolled oats—and placed it on Grandpa's bed, handy to the longshoreman. Then he shut the bedroom door smartly, as a signal that Big Tom was to have privacy, and returned to his own program.
He scampered downstairs for Grandpa's milk and his own, taking time to exchange a grin with the janitress, to whom Barber's defeat of yesterday was no grief. Thenback he raced, washed, combed and fed the little, old soldier, helping him to think the gruel a "swell puddin'," and the service Buckle's best. After that there was a short trip to Madison Square Garden where, despite all facts to the contrary, a colossal circus had moved in. Johnnie summoned lions before the wheel chair, and tigers, camels, Arab steeds and elephants, Cis's room serving admirably as the cage which contained these various quadrupeds. And, naturally, there was a deal of growling and roaring and kicking and neighing, while the camels barked surprisingly like Boof, and the elephants conversed with something of a Hebrew accent. All of which greatly delighted Grandpa, and he cackled till his scraggly beard was damp with happy tears.
When he was asleep there was sweeping to do (with wet, scattered tea leaves, and a broom drenched frequently at Niagara falls, all this to help keep down the dust). A few dishes of massy gold needed washing, too. The stove—that iron urn holding precious dust—called for the polishing rag. Of all these duties Johnnie made quick work.
Then, without a thought that Big Tom might come forth, see, and seeing, disapprove, Johnnie switched to the floor that square of oilcloth which so often covered the Table Round, rolled the wash-tub into place at the cloth's center, and partly filled it. At once there followed such a soaping and scrubbing, such a splashing and rinsing! Whenever the cold water struck a sore spot there were gasps and ouches.
A close attention to details was not lacking. Ears were not forgotten, nor the areas behind them; nor was the neck (all the way around); nor were such soil-gathering spots as knee-knobs and elbow-points; nor even the black-and-blue streaks across an earnest face. And presently, the drying process over, and Cis's old toothbrushlaid away, a pink and glowing body was bending and twisting close to the window, and shooting out its limbs.
When Johnnie was dressed, and stood, clean and combed and straight on his pins, his chest heaving as he glanced around a kitchen which was shipshape, and upon his aged friend, who was as presentable as possible, it occurred to him that when a caller happened in this morning—Mrs. Kukor, Father Pat, or Cis; or when he, himself, fetched King Arthur, or Mr. Roosevelt, or Robinson Crusoe, no excuses of any kind would have to be made. He and his house were in order.
Mrs. Kukor. So far he had not noticed a sound from overhead. When the brown shoes were on, he rapped an I'm-coming-up signal on the sink pipe. There was no answer. He rapped it again, and louder, watching the clock this time, in order to give the little Jewish lady a full minute to rise from her rocking chair. But she did not rise; and no steps went doll-walking across the ceiling. At this early hour could Mrs. Kukor be out? He went up.
Another surprise. Another change. Another blow. At her door was her morning paper, with its queer lettering; on the door, pinned low, was what looked like a note. Feeling sure that it had been left for him, Johnnie carried it half-way to the roof to get a light on its message, which was sorry news indeed:
Der Jony my rebeka has so bad sicknus i needs to go by hir love Leah Kukor.
He was so pained by the explanation, so saddened to learn that his devoted friend would be gone all day, that he descended absentmindedly to the flat directly below Barber's, where he walked in unceremoniously upon nine Italians of assorted sizes—the Fossis, all swarmed about their breakfast in a smoke-filled room.
With a hasty excuse, he darted out; then, his heart as lead, climbed home. Poor Mrs. Kukor! Poor daughterRebecca! Poor baby, whose mamma had a "bad sicknus!" And, yes, poor husband, Mr. Reisenberger!—even though he was "awful rich."
The broom had swept from under the stove those lengths of clothesline. With more philosophical wags of the head, Johnnie fastened them end to end with weaver's knots, and rehung the rope, knowing as he worked that he could never again bear to telephone along that mended line.
"Gee! Barber spoils ev'rything!" he declared.
After the rope was up he felt weak. He sat down at the table, thin legs curled round the rungs of the kitchen chair, clean elbows on the restored oilcloth, a big fist propping each cheek; and presently found himself listening, waiting, his eyes on the hall door. At every noise, he gave a start, and hope added its shine to that other shine which soap had left on his face.
And so the long morning passed. Shortly after noon, he carried dinner in to Big Tom, and took away the breakfast dishes. Grandpa went as far as the door with him, and opened grave, baby eyes at sight of his prostrate son. "Oh, Tommie sick!" he whispered, frightened. "Poor Tommie sick!"
"Shut up!" growled "poor Tommie," roughly, and Grandpa backed off quickly, with soft tap-taps.
"Maybe y' better have a doctor," essayed Johnnie, practically, and as calmly as he might have said it to Cis.
"You mind your business."
The afternoon was longer than the morning. Johnnie sat at the table again. His face was hot, and he kept a dipper of water in front of him so that he could take frequent draughts. Sometimes he watched his patch of sky; sometimes he shut his eyes and read from the burned books, or looked at their pictures; now and then he slept—a few minutes at a time—his head on his arms.
Toward evening, though rested physically, he found hisspirits again drooping. Bravely as he had started the day, its hours of futile waiting had tried him. (Could it be possible that grief was a matter of the clock?) As twilight once more moved upon the city it brought with it the misery, the loneliness and the pain which had been his just twenty-four hours before. Oh, where, he asked himself, was the light step, the tender voice, the helpful hand of her who had hurried home to him every nightfall of the past?
He understood then what a difference there could be between bodily suffering and mental suffering. His whipping, severe as it had been, was over and done, and all but forgotten. But this sorrow—! "Gee!" he breathed, marveling; "how it sticks!"
No; he had not realized when Cis left how hard it would be to stay on at the flat without her. And ahead of him were how many days like this one? He seemed there to stay for a time that was all but forever!
That night it was Boof who shared the mattress with him. He whispered to the dog for a long while, recounting his troubles. Afterward, he said over the tenth law, that one having to do with bravery. "Defeat does not down him" the Handbook had said; and he was not downed. He thought of every valiant soul he knew—Aladdin, Heywood, Uncas, Jim Hawkins, Lancelot, Crusoe. He fought the tears. But he felt utterly stricken, wholly deserted.
—By all save Polaris, now risen above the roofs. "Oh, you can see ev'rything!" Johnnie said to the star, enviously. "So, please, where is Father Pat?"
But Polaris only stared back at him. Bright and hard, calm and unchanging, what difference did it make to so proud a beacon—the woe of one small boy?
Joy cometh with the morning. This time Joy wore the disguise of a cowboy who had a black eye, a bag of apples,a newspaper, and two cigars. Also he carried a couple of businesslike packages, large ones, well wrapped in thick brown paper and wound with heavy string.
The excitement and happiness that One-Eye roused when he shuffled in came very nearly being the end of Johnnie, who could not believe his own eyes, but had to take hold of a shaggy trouser leg in order to convince himself that this was a real visitor and not just a think.
The Westerner appeared to have changed his mind about Big Tom in much the same way that Johnnie had changed his (and, doubtless, for the same reason). Dropping all of his packages, and fishing the cigars from a top vest-pocket, he stalked boldly into the bedroom. "Say!" he began, "here's a couple o' flora dee rope. Smoke you' blamed haid off!" Then, as Barber, grunting, reached a grateful hand for the gift, "An', say! I've brung the kid some more of all what y' burned up. So tell me—right now—if y' got any objections."
"No-o-o-o!"—crossly.
"If y' have, spit 'em out!"
"Gimme a match!"
It was a victory!
"That feller's lost his face!" One-Eye confided to Johnnie when the bedroom door was shut. He winked emphatically with that darkly colored good eye.
"L—lost his face?" cried Johnnie, aghast. "What y' mean, One-Eye? But he had it this mornin'! Isawit!"
"Aw, y' little jay-hawk!" returned the cowboy, fondly.
Then, excitement! In a short space of time which the Westerner described as "two shakes o' a lamb's tail," Johnnie was garbed from hat to leggings in a brand-new scout uniform, and was gloating and gurgling over anotherRobinson Crusoe, anotherTreasure Island, anotherLast of the Mohicans, anotherLegends of King Arthur, and anotherAladdin. Each had tinted illustrations. Eachwas stiff with newness, and sweet to the smell. "And the sky-book, 'r whatever y' call it, and the scout-book, w'y, they'll come t'morra, 'r the day after, I don't know which. —Wal, what d' y' say?"
"I say 'Thanks'—withallof me!" Johnnie answered, trembling with earnestness. They shook hands solemnly.
"Oh, our books!" cried Grandpa. "Our nice, little soldier!" To him, the cowboy's presents were those which had gone into the stove.
There was something in that newspaper for Johnnie to read. It was a short announcement. This had in it no element of surprise for him, since it told him nothing he did not already know. Nevertheless, it took his breath away. In a column headed "Marriages" were two lines which read, "Perkins-Way: April 18, Algernon Godfrey Perkins to Narcissa Amy Way."
"It's so!" murmured Johnnie, awed. "They're both married!" Seeing it in print like that, the truth was clinched, being given, not only a certainty, but a dignity and a finality only to be conveyed by type. "One-Eye, it'sso!"
One-Eye 'lowed it was.
"And, my goodness!" Johnnie added. "Think o' Cis havin' her name in the paper!"
They sat for a while without speaking. Grandpa, having been generously supplied by the cowboy with scraped apple, slept as sleeps a fed baby. Johnnie stacked and restacked his five books, caressing them, drawing in the fragrance of their leaves. One-Eye studied the floor and jiggled a foot.
"Sonny," he said presently (it was plain that he had something on his mind); "y' won't feel too down-in-the-mouth if I tell y'—tell y'—er—aw—" The spurred foot stopped jiggling.
"What? Oh, One-Eye, y're not goin' away right off?"
"T'night."
"Oh!"
"But, shucks, I'll be sailin' back East again in no time! These Noo York big-bugs is jes' yelpin' constant fer my polo ponies."
"I'm glad." But there was a shadow now upon a countenance which a moment before had been beaming. Things were going wrong with him—everything—all at once. It was almost as if some malign genie were working against him. "Mrs. Kukor's away, too," he said. "And with Cis gone—" He swallowed hard.
One-Eye began to talk in a husky monotone, as if to himself. "They's nobody else jes' like her," he declared; "that's a cinch! She's shore the kind that comes one in a box! Whenever I'd look at her, I'd allus think o' a angel, 'r a bird, 'r a little, bobbin' rose." He sighed, uncrossed his shaggy knees, crossed them the other way, shifted his quid of tobacco to the opposite cheek, and pulled down the brim of the wide hat till it touched his leathery nose. "Such a slim, little figger!" he added. "Such a pert, little haid! And—and a cute face! And she was white!Plumbwhite!"
Johnnie, as he listened, understood that the cowboy was talking of Cis—no one else. He was not mourning his own departure, nor regretting the fact that a small, lonely boy was to be left behind. Which gave that boy such a pang of jealousy as helped him considerably to bear this new blow.
"Wal," went on One-Eye, philosophically, "I never was a lucky cuss. If the sky was t' rain down green turtle soup, yours truly 'd find himself with jes' a fork in his pocket."
What was the cowboy hinting? How had luck gone against him, who was grown-up, and rich, and free totravel whither he desired? And, above all, what connection was there between Cis and green turtle soup?
Johnnie could not figure it out. With all his power of imagination, there was one thing he never did understand—the truth concerning One-Eye's feeling toward a certain young lady.
JOHNNIE could hear a fumbling outside in the hall, as if some one was going slowly to and fro, brushing a wall with gentle, uncertain hands. Cautiously he tiptoed to his own door and listened, his heart beating a little faster than the occasion warranted, this because he had just been scooting about the deck of theHispaniolaagain with Jim Hawkins, eluding that terrible Mr. Hands; and he was still more or less close in to the shore of Treasure Island, rather than in New York City, and hardly able to realize that in the gloomy, old kitchen he was reasonably safe from a pirate's knife.
The noise in the hall traveled away from the Barber door to another on the same floor. Johnnie concluded that the Italian janitress was giving the dark passage its annual scrub. As he had no wish to exchange words with her, much preferring the society of the rash, but plucky, Jim, he stole back to the table, and once more projected himself half the world away.
Three days had passed since One-Eye's departure. They had been quiet days. Mrs. Kukor was still gone. Big Tom ventured forth from his self-imposed imprisonment only late at night. Cis and Mr. Perkins, save for a cheery greeting scribbled on a post card that pictured the Capitol at Washington, seemed utterly to have cut themselves off from the flat. As for Father Pat, of course he had not forgotten Johnnie, not forsaken a friend; nevertheless, there had been no sign of him.
But having again his seven beloved books (the two extra ones had arrived by parcel post), Johnnie had not fretted once. What time had he for fretting? He was either working—cooking, washing, ironing, cleaning, waiting on the longshoreman or the aged soldier, going out grandly in his scout uniform to fetch things from the grocer's, smartening Grandpa's appearance or his own—or else he was reading. And when he was reading, his world and all of its cares dropped magically away from him, and the clock hands fairly spun.
One-Eye bidden a brave good-by, one of Johnnie's first jobs had been the rearranging of Cis's closet room. Though he still felt that he could not take over for his own use the little place which was sacred to her, nevertheless he had considered it a fit and proper spot in which to enshrine his seven volumes. So he had set the dressing-table box back against the wall, straightened its flounces, and placed the books in a row upon this attractive bit of furniture, flanking them at one end with the lamp, at the other with the alarm clock. Then he named the tiny room the library.
The lamp was for use at night, so that he could prolong his hours of study and enjoyment, seated on his mattress which, folded twice, made a luxurious seat of just the right height to command a good view of Mr. Roosevelt. The clock, on the other hand, was for daylight use only. When he was seated at the kitchen table, an elbow at either side of a book, his head propped, and his spirit far away, the clock (having been set with forethought, but wound only one turn) sounded a soft, short tinkle for him, calling him from Crusoe's realm, or from those northern forests through which he followed after Heywood, or from China, from Treasure Island, from Caerleon; and warning him it was time to prepare Big Tom a meal.
The fumbling about the hall door began again. Next,the knob was turned, slowly and uncertainly, as if by a child. Once more cutting short that enthralling hunt for gold, Johnnie hurried back to the door and opened it—and looked into the beady, bright black eyes of an exceedingly old lady.
She had on a black dress which was evidently as old as herself, for in spots it was the same rusty color as the few faded hairs, streaked with gray, which showed from under her ancient headshawl. In one shaking hand she held a stout cane; in the other, a slip of paper. This latter she offered him. And he found written on it his own name and Barber's, also brief directions for locating the building in the area.
"What's this for?" asked Johnnie. "What d' y' want me t' do? I can't give y' anything 'cept a cup o' tea. I'm sorry, but I'm broke."
"Mm-mm-mm-mm," mumbled the old lady; then showing a double line of gums in a smile, she plucked at his sleeve. "Father Mmmmm!" she said again. "Ah-ha? ah-ha? ah-ha?" With each ah-a, she backed a step invitingly, and nodded him to come with her.
Father Mungovan! A shiver ran all down him. For instantly he knew why she had come. Running to the stove, he wet down the fire with some hot water out of the teakettle, put away his book, brought out his own quilt to cover Grandpa's knees, swiftly laid Big Tom's place at the table, cut some bread, made the tea, then knocked on the bedroom door to explain that supper was ready on the oilcloth, but that he had to go out.
If Barber made any reply or objection to that, Johnnie did not hear it. "Father Mungovan's sick?" he asked the old lady as he followed her, a step at a time, down the three flights.
"Sick," she assented, nodding the shawled head. "Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"
She hobbled, and even on the level sidewalk her pace was slow. He tried to help her, but she would not have his hand under her elbow, pulling away from him, muttering, and pointing ahead with her stick.
"Where d' we go t'?" he asked, for it was in his mind to set off by himself at a run. However, he could not understand what she replied; and soon gave up trying, feeling that, after all, a boy who intended to be a scout should not leave such a weak, aged soul behind, all alone, but should stay to help her over the crossings. "I'm 'xac'ly like that picture in the Handbook!" he reminded himself.
But it was little assistance the old lady needed. At every crossing she went stumping boldly forward, her cane high in the air and shaken threateningly, while she looked neither to the right nor the left, paying no attention to on-coming vehicles, whether these were street-cars, motors or teams, only warning each and all with a piping "Ah-ha! ah-ha! ah-ha!"
People smiled at her. They smiled also, and admiringly, at the freshly uniformed, blond-haired boy scout striding beside her, whose face, by the fading marks upon it, indicated that lately he had accidentally bumped into something.
But Johnnie saw no one, so completely were his thoughts taken up. Of course Father Pat was sick. That was why he had not been back to the flat. Was there, the boy wondered, anything a scout could do for the beloved priest? Johnnie thought of all those instructions in the Handbook which concerned the aiding and saving of others. "Oh, I want t' help him!" he cried, and in his eagerness forged ahead of the old lady, whereupon she poked him sharply with the stick.
"Slow! Slow!" she ordered, breathing open-mouthed.
The distance seemed endless. Johnnie began to fearthat he might not reach the Father before he died. "Oh, all that fightin' was bad for him!" he concluded regretfully. "That's what's the matter! It wore him out! I wish Mrs. Kukor didn't go for him! But, oh, he mustn't die! He mustn't! Hemustn't!"
And yet that was precisely what Father Pat was about to do. When Johnnie had climbed the steps of a brownstone house and been admitted by a strange priest; and between long portières had entered a high, dim room where there was a wide, white bed, he realized the worst at once. For even to young eyes that had never before looked upon death, it was plain that a great, a solemn, and a strangely terrible change had come into that revered, homely, kindly face. Its smile was not gone—not altogether; but still showed faintly around the big, tender Irish mouth. But, ah, the dear, red hair was wet with mortal sweat, and lay in thin, trailing wisps upon a brow uncommonly white.
Yes, Father Pat had been right; the bridges made for him by the elderly dentist "who needed the work" were to outlast the necessity for them. And the big, young, broad-shouldered soldier-priest was going out even before little, feeble, old Grandpa!
"Father Pat!" whispered the boy.
The green eyes, moving more slowly than was their wont, traveled inquiringly from place to place till they found their object, then fixed themselves lovingly upon Johnnie's face. Next, out stole a hand, feebly searching for another.
"Little—golden—thing!"
Ah, how hard he was breathing! "If I could jus' give himmybreath!" thought Johnnie; "'r my lungs!" He took the searching hand, but turned his face away. There was a small, round table beside the bed. Upon it were some flowers in a glass, a prayer book, a rosary, a goblet of water, a fan. Mechanically he counted the things—over and over. He was dry-eyed. He felt not the least desire to weep. The grief he was enduring was too poignant for tears. It was as if he had been slashed from forehead to knees with a sword.
"I'm not actin' like a scout," he thought suddenly. And forced himself to turn again to that friend so heart-rendingly changed. Then aloud, and striving to speak evenly, "Father Pat, y're not goin' t' die, are y'? No, y're not goin' t' die!"
He felt his hand pressed. "Die?" repeated the Father, and Johnnie saw that there was almost a playful glint in the green eyes. "Shure, scout boy,"—halting with each word—"dyin's a thing we all come t', one time or another. Ye know, ev'ry year manny a man dies that's never died before."
"I couldn't have y' go," urged the boy. "Oh, Father Pat, Cis, she's gone, but I can stand it, 'cause she's happy. But you—you—you—!" Words failed him.
"Lad dear,"—and now the Father's look was grave and tender—"God's will be done."
"Oh, yes! I—I know. But, oh, Father Pat, promise me that—that y' won't—go far!"
"Ah!"—the dimming eyes suddenly swam in pity.
"Jus' t' the nearest star, Father Pat! Jus' t' the nearest star!"
"Little star lover!" Then after a pause for rest, "Johnnie, ye've loved Father Pat a good bit?"
"Oh, so much! So much!"
"And I've loved the little poet—the dreamer! And I've faith—in him—as I go."
Johnnie knelt—yes, the same Johnnie who had always felt so shy when any one spoke of God, or prayer, or being religious. How natural the act of kneeling was, now that he was face to face with this tragedy which no earthly power could avert! It was quite as the Father had oncepredicted: "Ah, when the day comes, lad dear, that ye feel bad enough, when grief fair strikes ye down, and there's nobody can help ye but God, then ye'll understand why men pray." Well, that day had come. Now everything was in His hands.
Yet Johnnie could not shape a prayer—could only beg dumbly for help as he clung to Father Pat's hand, and laid his cheek against it.
It was while he was kneeling that he saw, entering between those portières, some one dressed in white—a woman. White she wore, too, upon the silky white of her hair. The snowy headdress framed a face pale, but beautiful, with the beauty that comes from service and self-sacrifice and suffering.
The instant Johnnie glimpsed that face, and looked into the sad, brave eyes, he knew her!—knew her though she wore no red cross upon her sleeve. Of course, among all the souls in the great universe, she would be the one to come now, just when he, Johnnie, needed the sight of her to make him more staunch!
He remembered how she had stood before the firing-squad, not shrinking from her fate, not crying out in terror of the cruel bullets. And now how poised she was, how fearless, in this room where Death was waiting! Awe-struck, adoring her, and scarcely daring to breathe lest she vanish, he got slowly to his feet.
"Edith Cavell!" he whispered.
"Edith—Cavell!" echoed Father Pat. "'Twas her dyin'—that helped—manny——"
"It's time to go," she said softly. "Tell the Father good-by."
Dutifully he turned to take that last farewell. But now that he had the martyred nurse at his side, he determined to endure the parting manfully. He knelt again, and tried to smile at the face smiling back at him from thepillow. He tried to speak, too, but his lips seemed stiff, for some reason, and his tongue would not obey. But he kept his bright head up.
He heard a whisper—Father Pat was commending this scout he loved to the mercy of a higher power. Next, he felt himself lifted gently and guided backward from the bed. He did not want to go. He wanted to keep on seeing, seeing that dear face, to hold on longer to that weak hand. "Oh, don't—don't take me!" he pleaded.
The dying eyes followed, oh, how affectionately, the small, khaki-clad figure. "God's—own—child!" breathed the priest, and there was tender pride in the faint tones. "God's—blessed—lad!"
"Father!"
Then the folds of the portières brushed Johnnie's shoulders, and fell between his eyes and the wide, white bed.
He had taken his last look.
He was nearly home when he discovered the letter—a thick letter in a long envelope. It was in his hand, though he could not remember how it came to be there. But it was undoubtedly his, for both sides of it bore his name in Father Pat's own handwriting:John Blake.
He did not open it. He could not read it just yet. Thrusting it into a coat pocket, he stumbled on. Had he complained and cried just because Cis was to live in another part of this same city? Had he actually thought the loss of a suit and some books enough to feel bad and bitter about? Was it he who had said, after Cis went, that nothing worse could happen?
Ah, how small, how trivial, all other troubles seemed as compared to this new, strange, terrible thing—Death! And how little, before this, he had known of genuine grief!
Now something really grievous had happened. And it seemed to him as if his whole world had come suddenly tumbling down in pieces—in utter chaos—about his yellow head.