This is a chronicle of facts, culled from the life of William Adolphus Turnpike and other personages, as distinguished from mere history. Everybody in this age of research and cheap books, to say nothing of magazines and newspapers, knows that history is not true. It is established beyond doubt, for instance, that King Richard III. was a man of loving disposition, and that the story of his being an accessory to the death of the little princes has no foundation. We know also that the Scots deliberately planned the loss of the battle of Flodden in order to pave the way for their modern invasion of England and the capture of all the good jobs in the empire. They simply lured the English on, because they knew that no Englishman could live north of the Tweed and ever get enough to eat, while every Scotsman is impervious to stomachic or climatic conditions so long as there is a position to be filled or a bawbee to be paid out.
Here then, sticking to facts, is to be recorded that William Adolphus Turnpike reached the office one Monday morning, some time after the events last chronicled, wearing a black eye, an abrased nose, and a scratched chin. Naturally, Lucien Torrance, office boy to Simmons, the architect, and therefore on terms of equality with William, demanded an immediate and detailed explanation, which William proceeded to give.
"Did yer see the lacrosse match between the Easts and the Stars on Saturday?
"What! yer didn't? Gee! you missed it. Say, there was somethin' doing nearly every minute till the police broke up the game and took the players to the Number 4 Station.
"What's that—did I take the kiddies? Not for a minute I didn't. Would yer wanter take your little brothers or sisters——
"You ain't got none. Well, nobody's blamin' you, are they? I'm just supposin' you had. Would you wanter take 'em any place you'd thought there was goin' to be a scrap? Not much you wouldn't. I seen them teams play once before when I was a kid.
"What! Well, I like that. Fourteen last birthday, and I'm taking nothin' from any feller my age around these parts and don't you forget it, or I might forget I promised me mother I'd try not to fight for one day.
"Well, anyway I piked off alone to the flats to see the game, and, say, there was about half a millyun people there.
"What's that! There ain't half a millyun in the whole city of Toronto? You'd be a peach of a booster for this town, wouldn't you? Suppose there ain't, it sounds good anyway. Besides, you know very well I'm just trying to give you some idea about the size of the mob. And say, maybe there wasn't some tough mugs there neither. Uh!
"Well, the referee he gives the teams a talking to about keeping the nation-al game clean and free from disgrace. 'The first man,' he says, 'that forgets he's playing lacrosse and begins laying the hickory on anybody,' he says, ''ll get a good long penalty.'
"Then Alderman McWhirter takes a whirl at 'em; him with the spongy whiskers on each side of his face, and a jaw like the vestibul of a street car.
"Vestibool, is it? Where did ye learn French? You muster lived in Montreal.
"You never? Well, hold your hair on; hold your hair on. Kinder soured on your food, ain't yer? What d'ye eat for breakfast anyway? Malted soapsuds, chipped mule fritters, er any o' them fancy foods?
"Porridge! my, but you're away behind the times. Wake up, man, wake up, the fast express is tearin' down the track and——
"All right. I'll proceed. So McWhirter gives the bunch a spiel a mile long and would be going yet, but somebody calls out to him to dry up, an' he gets red in the face and dries up, and the game starts.
"For about one minute they played like Sunday school was a joy to them, and then the Easts bangs the ball into the net and the goal umpire he ups with his hand, meanin' a goal and——
"What's that? You know that means a goal, eh! Feeling pretty pert this morning, eh! Mebbe you'd like to go on an' tell the story to yourself.
"Oh! all right, all right. Well, anyway, up goes the goal umpire's hand for a goal, and down goes the umpire for the count, for Tip Doolen of the Stars cracks him a wallop on his brain factory you could hear a mile away. And all the Easts piles on to Tip and it took the police fifteen minutes to get 'em untied. And the police sergeant he says, it's Tip to the station, but the goal umpire wakes up and says he wouldn't lodge no complaint, for Tip and him's friendly, only would they please get a new goal umpire, he says, and they did.
"Then the police sergeant wouldn't let 'em go on playing till he'd had a little say, and you'd oughter heard it. He says, 'It looks to me like most er you fellers is spoilin' for a clubbin', and I'd hate,' he says, 'to disappoint you if that's the case. But I'm willing to stay on duty a few hours beyond me time,' he says, 'in order to please you.'
"And the fellers swear they're ready to go on with the game and play like kinder-gart'ners. So the sergeant says, 'Let her go,' he says.
"So it went all right for quite a while and there wasn't much doin' except the noise, for both sides had big gangs there and you cert'nly could hear 'em.
"At the end of the second quarter it was a tie—two goals each, and not more'n half the players on the mourners' bench.
"What! You don't know what the mourners' bench is? Say, if you'd only study the English language 'stead of loading your think tank with them furrin' words you wouldn't need nobody to tell you that the mourners' bench is just another name for the penalty bench.
"But when the third quarter gets nicely started! Well, say, the referee he puts one of the Easts off the field for trippin', and another one of the Easts he swings his stick on the referee's slats for all he's worth, an' the referee just has time to kick him in the shins before a third feller gives the referee a biff under the ear and lays him out. About half the people made a mad rush for the Easts and the other half rushes for the Stars, and there's only six policemen there. But the sergeant—say, my Pa knows him well—he's the wise guy. He lets 'em all get going and you couldn't see anything but people shovin' and crowdin' and hittin'. And then he chases for the caretaker of the park where the flats are an' gets two lines of hose fixed on a hydrant and two cops a holdin' the hose. And pretty soon two streams er water hits the crowd, and you'd oughter have seen the way it bust up. Honest, I never thought there was so many fast runners in the whole of Canada. And when the most of the people is outer the way, here's nearly all the Easts and the Stars a rolling around on the ground tearin' each other to pieces. The water never fizzed on 'em. And the police sergeant—my Pa says he's a strat-eg-ist—he says, 'It's just adding fuel to the flames,' he says, 'to put water on 'em,' and looks round, and I did too, and sees the patrol wagon coming along with more cops in it. Them lacrosse fellers is just attendin' strictly to business same as if there wasn't anybody in the whole province of Ontario but them. And then the cops waded right in and clubbed them fellers good and plenty, and——
"That's what I'm coming to, if you'd only keep the brakes on your forty horse power tongue a minute.
"Yes, sir, they squeezed the whole shooting match into the wagon and took 'em to the station.
"Sure they gave 'em bail that night, and soaked 'em five and costs apiece in the court Monday morning. And I was telling my Pa about it, and I says to him, 'Now,' I says, 'in a case like that, Pa, who wins?' Of course I meant the game.
"And my Pa says to me, he says, 'Well,' he says, 'it looks to me like a draw,' he says, 'with first-class honors,' he says, 'to Sergeant Mackay and second place to the magistrate,' he says. And he never bats an eyelid when he says it. I tell you it's a pretty wise guy that can put one over on my Pa.
"What's that gotter do with my face! Gee, but you oughter to be in the law—you'd be the peach of a cross-exam'ner you would. But just so's to have no hard feelin's I'll tell you. I'm an East-ender myself, and I made some noise too. One of the Star rooters got kinder mad at me making a few remarks during the game, and when the mix-up starts I'm laying for him. But he seen me comin' and I couldn't dodge the brick he had. It's all right to pipe off about fighting square and fair, but that guy wasn't lettin' his brick go to waste till he could think up a motter. Not for him. He did just what I would have done if I'd seen that brick first."
But when Whimple asked for the cause of the battered visage, William merely answered that he had collided with a brick.
"Was the brick hurt any?"
"Well, not so's you'd notice it," retorted William smilingly.
"Um! It's rather unfortunate that it was such a hard object—for you, I mean," said Whimple. "You see I had intended to start you collecting rents to-day."
"Me!"
"Yes. Miss Whimple, my boy, is the possessor of some twenty houses; four of them in your district, William, to say nothing of some choice lots that are increasing in value every month. She's a wonderful woman, boy; her dad left her four houses to begin with, and she's done the rest. If I had her business ability, William, I'd be on the fair way to being wealthy now."
"But, Mister Whimple, my face won't matter. Like as not it'll give me a chance to talk to the people and find out whether they're good tenants or not. Let me try it, sir."
"All right. One of the tenants down your way owes two months' rent now, and in the other cases the rents are due to-day. Here are the addresses. You look after these four tenants every month; I'll take care of the others."
And forthwith William Adolphus Turnpike set out, as he expressed it to Lucien Torrance, "to round up some coin for Mister Whimple's aunt." He was proud of the trust imposed in him, and could not forbear a parting shot at Lucien.
"You're gotter stay here," he said importantly, "and answer fool questions when people call. But it's me to the front, Lucien Torrance, on a man's job."
William was an unconscious diplomat. His business career had already been marked by the devotion of much time to the consideration of the easiest methods of dealing with problems as they presented themselves from time to time, though not always with success, and his first perusal of the list of tenants handed him by Whimple showed him that the job of rent collecting would be no sinecure. He knew his own district very well; the work and conditions, the family life, and many other details of a more or less intimate nature, were matters of knowledge to him. He read the list over again as he turned down a street to make his first call, and then passed the first house on his list, and kept right on until he came to Jimmy Duggan's coal and wood yard. Jimmy was located in his office, a wooden shack with a tin roof, where he was laboriously engaged in the monthly task of straightening out his books. To him William confided the errand entrusted to him, and over the habits and the career of the first-named tenant on the list there followed a solemn conference. At its close, William, with a "Much obliged, Jimmy," sallied forth to the house he had passed on his way, and knocked sharply at the door. A girl, untidy, unwashed, with a face that might have been pretty if the coating of dirt upon it were removed, appeared at the bay window of the ground floor. William knew the girl and she knew William. Unabashed, he endured her calm scrutiny, banking on his belief that she would never "tumble" to his errand. She looked a long time, but finally came to the door and slowly opened it. Whereupon William promptly stepped inside.
"Is Mister Jonas in?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.
"No," she said timidly.
"Ah! gone out for a walk I suppose?" said William politely.
In the dim light of the hall she looked at him with fear in her eyes.
"He's a great walker, I believe," William went on with a tinge of sarcasm. "Out in the mornings, out in the afternoons, takes another stroll in the evenings. Does he ever go to sleep?"
She made no answer, and William, who was at least a head shorter, patted her on the shoulder. "Cheer up," he said patronisingly, "it's all right. I've just come for the rent, that's all."
"For what?" she gasped.
"The rent; hadn't you better show me where he is right away?"
"Didn't I say he wasn't in?" she answered sharply.
"You did, my dear, but I'm willing to forget it. I believe that kinder answer goes in polite society when the lady of the house don't want to see anybody, and the lady what calls hopes that the lady she calls on ain't in. But it don't go with me."
"But he ain't in," the girl whined.
"Then he's out for the first time in three years," was the rejoinder, "and it's funny he'd pick rent day for a walk; him owing two months' rent at that. P'raps he left the money with you?"
"No."
"H'm. Then I'll wait till he comes back."
"But he won't be back until to-night."
"All the same to me. I can wait; that's part of my work."
She shifted ground uneasily, and finally burst out, "He's in the kitchen, Will Turnpike, and you can go in yourself. He's wild today."
William walked solemnly through to the kitchen where Jonas was sitting by the window in a great arm-chair. A weird-looking figure he was, muffled in an old overcoat, though it was summer and the day was warm. A growth of untrimmed whiskers through which peered crafty eyes, and a mass of long matted hair topping a big head, gave an uncanny appearance to the man, who was a helpless cripple through rheumatism. He glared at William, who cordially expressed the hope that he was feeling a little better.
"Is that what she let you in for?" he demanded fiercely.
"Well, I didn't just put it to her in that way, if you mean your daughter," said William calmly. "I'm after some money, to tell you the truth."
"Money!" the old man shrieked the word.
"You heard me first time," returned William politely, "and ain't you glad your sickness don't hinder your hearing some?"
"Money!" shouted the old man again. "Money! What do you want money from me for?"
"The rent," said William calmly—"two months, due to-day. You can read, I believe," and he held before the old man's face two receipts, properly made out for the amounts due. "I see," he said, pointing to an open letter on the window sill, "that you got Mister Whimple's note about it. I'm the coll-ect-or he speaks of."
"You!"
"The same, Mister Jonas."
The man glared at him savagely, and then shouted, "You—you—get t'hades out of this."
"Sure, I'll get out as soon as I get the rent. But as for the place you speak of—not for mine. This is a good enough world for me, Mister Jonas."
The old man fumed in helpless rage. He cursed William and his family and their antecedents, cursed his daughter, cursed everybody and everything for a full five minutes, and ended up with the declaration, "I haven't got any money."
William silently regarded him for a moment, and then leaning forward a little said, very clearly, "Well, I guess you ain't making so much as you uster when you sold light-weight coal on the big contract from the city, but I'm told on the best au-thor-ity, Mister Jonas, that you ain't ever likely to know what it means to be without money."
For a long time then they looked at each other, fear on the old man's face, William inwardly troubled, outwardly cool and unruffled. The old man broke the silence.
"Mary, Mary," he screamed, and his daughter ran to him, "pay this young ruffian two months' rent, and get the receipts from him, and if you ever let him in again—I'll—I'll kill you."
When the transaction was completed, William turned to Jonas. "I'll be here to the minute when the next rent's due," he said confidently, "and it'll be ever so much nicer for you to have it ready, else," and here he assumed what he believed to be the correct attitude for such an occasion, "I'll have to have you turned out."
Then he left, the old man hurling curses at him until the door closed.
"He's gotter great line of talk," said William to himself. "Now for Mrs. Moriarity," that lady being the next on his list. William knew her for a good-natured, careless woman, who nevertheless was the real head of the Moriarity household, which included nine children of varying ages and sizes. Nothing was ever done on time in her house; no bill was ever paid when it was due, though Mrs. Moriarity never tried to evade one. She was just happy-go-lucky and careless.
William approached the house with some misgivings. A number of the younger Moriaritys were playing around the door, and just as William approached them a drunken man staggered up, singing loudly. He fell over one of the children, and the youngster set up a howl that brought the mother to the open door. She reached it just as the man, thrusting out a long arm, brutally flung another child on one side. With an angry cry the mother rushed for the brute, but William reached him first. Without a word the boy stooped, grabbed one of the man's ankles firmly, and, putting all his strength into the effort, pulled his foot off the ground. The man lurched heavily and fell full length upon his face, just escaping William, who stood upright, as Mrs. Moriarity, talking volubly, plumped down on the man's back. "And here oi'll sit till a p'licemon comes," she said; "you, William Turnpike, kape a lukout for wan." And even as she said it a policeman came along and took the drunken offender into custody. As the policeman marched his prisoner away, Mrs. Moriarity turned to William, who was trying to comfort the little Moriaritys, for those who had not been hurt were crying as lustily from fear and sympathy as those who had. In the short struggle with the man William's face had received a buffet that had re-opened one of the scratches, and this was now bleeding somewhat freely.
"For the luv of heavin, Willyum, did that brute do that to you?" cried Mrs. Moriarity.
William tried to explain, but she never heard him. "It's good f'r him Moriarity wasn't here or he'd a bruk his neck," she went on excitedly. "Come on in," she ordered, "all ov yez; come on, Willyum." And William went. She comforted her offspring and bathed William's face in warm water, unheeding his protests and deaf to his explanation of the original cause of his injuries. It was only after she had made him drink a cup of tea and had sent the children out to their play again that he was able to explain his errand.
"And yu're a rint collector—a bhoy loike you! Think ov that now. Willyum, yu're mother ought to be proud ov yez. Sure an' oi'll pay the rint: oi'd clane forgotten this was the day, but oi've some money by me, bhoy, an' yez can have it." She escorted him to the door after the rent had been paid over, patting him on the head, calling him a hero, and telling him that "the rint wud always be rady for the loikes ov him." And at the door, in the open light of day, she flung her arms around his neck. "God bless yez, ye darlint," she said, and kissed him warmly. William blushed all over, but went on his way rejoicing. Whimple had told him that the other two tenants were always on time, and this day William found it to be so.
It was nearly six o'clock when he started back to the office, one hand holding the rents thrust deep into a pocket. Whimple, who had been growing anxious at the boy's long absence, and had been blaming himself for asking him to do the work, met him half-way to the office. "I was a little bit worried," he said simply; "I'm afraid I made a mistake putting so much responsibility on you, William."
But when, in the inner room of the office, William laid down the money he had collected with the laconic statement, "It's kinder slow work," Whimple's misgivings fled.
"Bully for you, William," he said enthusiastically. "You're a winner. There's a new day dawning for me—and for you. I have had two new clients in to-day. You've brought me luck, boy."
And William grinned delightedly.
For a week before the first appearance in vaudeville of "Flo Dearmore," Tommy Watson's behaviour alarmed his friends. He ate little; it was plain to those who met him daily that he slept little, and William Adolphus Turnpike confided to Whimple that Tommy was "shaping up for the asylum." "He don't know what he's sayin' half the time, and the other half he ain't sayin' anything, he's just singing Scotch songs, and Tommy's singing ain't much diff'rent to the hootin' of a factory whistle," he said earnestly.
"You sing some old country songs pretty well yourself, William."
"Pa says so, and so does Ma, but——" he paused.
"Well?"
"Well—I ain't laying out to be no singer. Tommy took me to one of them singing factories one day, and the feller what heard me says, 'Well,' he says, 'he has a sweet enough voice, but that's about all for him.'"
"That was encouraging though."
"But I ain't hankering to get my living by singing. Anyway, that's not worrying me now—it's Tommy. Mister Epstein says he can guess, but he won't tell."
"Guess what's troubling Tommy?"
"Yes—and I wish I did. Maybe I could help—if I am only a boy."
"Well, we'll have to go slowly, William; it won't do to intrude on a man's private affairs."
"That's what Jimmy Duggan said when he laid out the burglar what was crackin' his safe in the coal yard office; only this is diff'rent; nobody ain't swipin' Tommy's money. I asked him and he says to me, 'Willyum, you know what our old friend Bill Shakespeare says.' And I says, 'What?' 'Well,' he says, 'Bill has a few lines to say it don't matter much who swipes me purse, it's what hits me heart that counts.'"
"Um—well, that may be Tommy's version of it: Shakespeare's was somewhat different."
There the conversation dropped. Whimple thought no more about it until the following Monday night when he received from Epstein an invitation to go to the Variety with him. He met the old comedian at the door of the theatre, and found Watson and William with him. They had seats in the front row of the balcony. Epstein and Whimple sat together, Watson next to the barrister, and William next to Watson. It was a fair bill as vaudeville bills go, with Flo Dearmore about half-way down on the programme. Whimple noticed that Watson paid no heed to the various turns, though William was revelling in them. But when Flo Dearmore's number went up he saw Watson lean forward with his arms on the rail in front of him, and even in the vague light of the semi-darkened theatre he noticed that his face was pale and drawn. The very simplicity of "the turn" constituted one of its greatest charms. Flo came on the stage and sang in a pure contralto voice several old country songs. A pretty woman she was, not tall, but gracefully formed, with dark blue eyes and a wealth of black hair, crowning a well-shaped head. She was a remarkably expressive singer—you saw the scenes of her songs as clearly as though you were wandering through them with Flo by your side. The applause was heartier with every song; it grew into an outburst of cheering when she sang "Come Back to Erin:" and at its close bowed and smiled her acknowledgments. She would have left the stage then, but the audience would not have it. Again and again she advanced and bowed her thanks, and again and again the cheering rolled out. Finally the lights went up, once more she stepped to the front of the stage, nodded to the orchestra leader, who waved his baton, and began "Loch Lomond." Sweet and clear the voice rose and fell; they cheered after the first verse; they cheered again at the close of the second; and then—she saw Tommy Watson, who was staring straight at her, his face brighter now, his eyes aflame, his lips slightly parted. What was it that brought the tears to her eyes; that made her falter and sway a little, and then stand silent and helpless while the orchestra twice started the air for the third verse, and the audience begin to grow restless?
The stage manager, alarmed and worried, was about to ring down the curtain when, from the balcony, a clear boyish voice took up the song. All eyes were turned in that direction. Flo Dearmore herself flung out her hands as though urging the people to listen and the orchestra to play on. Whimple started from his seat and then sat down again on Epstein's sharp "Leave him alone," and William, looking down on the stage, unconscious of anything but the vision of helpless loveliness there, sang in his sweet boyish voice:—
"The wild flowers spring, and the wee birdies sing,And in sunshine the waters are gleaming,But the broken heart, it kens nae second spring,Though the waeful may cease frae their greetin'."
She joined him then in the refrain, both keeping perfect time:—
"Oh! you'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road,And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,But me an' my true love will never meet again,On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."
There followed a scene the like of which the Variety had never witnessed. For long minutes the applause and cheering echoed and re-echoed through the theatre. Everybody told everybody else what a clever act it was; but they had been "on to it" from the first. Scores of people confided to other scores that they had noticed the lad come into the theatre and take the seat reserved for him. They wondered how old he was; if he was "her brother," and between times they hoped that there would be a repeat.
But as a "repeater" William would not have been a success. He was trembling and almost hysterical when he sat down, and Tommy Watson was in almost as bad a condition. Whimple was uneasy; Epstein only seemed to be cool. He passed the word along, and, as the curtain went up for the next act, the four friends quietly left their seats and walked down the stairs into the main entrance of the theatre. Here they were met by the manager, who seized Epstein by the arm. "Say, 'Chuck," he said excitedly, "that was a great stunt. How much will the kid take for the week?"
Epstein smiled and turned to William. "I wouldn't do it again for a hundred dollars a night," said William pointedly, "and I don't know what I did it for anyway."
"But, see here, my boy," said the manager, "there's big money in it for you—say——"
William, however, was already at the door, and Whimple, not wholly understanding what lay behind Epstein's murmured, "Sorry—but I'll have to explain later," followed him.
The manager was talking now to Tommy. "Flo Dearmore wants to see you, Mr. Watson," he said. "Do you know her?"
Tommy nodded. "Come along then—you coming too, Epstein?"
"No." The old comedian smiled affectionately on Tommy as the latter went off with the manager, and then walked away slowly, his lips moving as though he was communing with himself.
At the door of the dressing-room the manager left Tommy, who knocked gently. The door was opened at once by a coloured maid of uncertain age, who turned to her mistress at the sight of Tommy. "It's a gent, honey," she said, and Flo, who was already in street attire, turned to the door. "Come in, Tommy Watson," she said quietly. "Toots," to the maid, "leave us a little while."
Tommy stood near the door, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks full of colour now, his hands rigid by his side. Flo waited, her own cheeks burning, her heart beating fast. Tommy came a little nearer to her, and, "It seems like a long, long time since you went on the stage, Flo Dearmore," he said.
She nodded, and recovering a little of her dashing self, answered, "It's only ten years, Tommy."
"No," said Tommy, "it's more than that—it's all of twenty."
"Tommy!"
"I'm forty and you're thirty—think of that, Flo, and you were ten the first time I saw you on the stage. Don't you remember the pantomime in the old schoolhouse? You were the Queen of the Fairies, and——"
"Yes, but I was still a school-girl."
"And your heart was already set upon the stage. I've never forgotten that night, Flo; such a winsome little fairy you were."
"But—but——" she faltered.
"I did—I tell you," he asserted stoutly, as though she had contradicted him—"I fell in love with you that night; I watched you grow into young womanhood, Flo; and always—and always—you filled my heart."
"Don't, Tommy."
"And when I asked you—and when you laughed——" he broke off abruptly.
"Don't," she pleaded—"don't, Tommy. It was cruel of me——"
He came nearer still—his arms outstretched now. She rose with a swift, "No, no, Tommy, I cannot—not yet—wait a little longer—give me a little time," and there was a note of appeal in her voice. She went on rapidly. "I must feel that I can give you all that you would have, Tommy. There is no other man—believe me—and my work—my work—well, it is not all now. There are times when—" and again she halted. Then looking at him bravely, she said, "Tommy, if you are of the same mind at the end of the season, and there is no other woman," this with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, "perhaps I'll know for sure."
And Tommy, the silver-tongued auctioneer, the man whose eloquence opened people's pockets and made them buy bargains they didn't want, meekly accepted her rebuff when she refused even to allow him to kiss her hand, and left her when she said, "It must be good-night, Tommy, now."
The next morning the newspapers with one accord paid tribute to the cleverness of the Loch Lomond scene in "Flo Dearmore's turn," and at every remaining performance it was repeated. But William had no part in it. A choir boy from a city church got "the big money" the manager had talked of. And Tommy Watson, who attended every performance during the week for just so long as Flo Dearmore's act lasted, began to eat like a man who had many slim meals to make up for.
The truth as to William's turn at the Variety having gradually become known among his friends, he assumed, in the opinion of various of his youthful associates, an importance not hitherto felt for him, and this manifested itself in the form of an invitation to take part in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," to be presented by the Berkeley Junior Dramatic Society. William's eager consent was somewhat dampened when he was informed by the young and ambitious manager of the production that he would have to take the part of a small coloured boy and that there were no lines for him—particularly. "You'll just come in kind of incidental," said the manager—who was not much older than William—"and sing a piece."
"Not much. No singing for mine."
"Pshaw! It'll be dead easy, and I bet it'll make a hit too. You know the stunt—lights down—spotlight on the stage—you in it singing in a low sweet voice 'Loch Lomond.'"
"What!"
"Sure thing."
"What in Sam Hill has 'Loch Lomond' gotter do with 'Uncle Tom's Cabin!'" demanded William truculently. "Them niggers never even heard of it, I'll bet."
"Well, this ain't no ordinary Uncle Tom's show, let me tell you that," retorted the manager. "We've doctored it up quite a bit. It's too slow for our bunch the way it is put on by most companies."
"But 'Loch Lomond' in a nigger show! Gee! you're crazy. Next thing I know you'll want me to wear kilts."
"I never thought of that," said the manager thoughtfully; "but, say, that would be an elegant stunt. Let's do it."
"Not with my legs," said William. "Didjer ever see 'em? They're about as fat as fishing rods."
"All the better. It'll bring the house down, I tell you."
"Well, I don't want any house falling on me the way that'll be liable to when it sees me in kilts and me face black—'oh! mother, mother, mother, pin some clothes on me,'" he concluded sarcastically. But in the end William was won over, and he entered into the rehearsals with a whole-hearted determination that gladdened the manager's heart, and made half of the rest of the cast jealous.
You who discriminate in the choice of plays; who talk learnedly of the art of Irving, Mansfield, Forbes Robertson, and Miller; you should have seen that presentation given to a packed house. There were all of three hundred people in the Berkeley Junior Dramatic Society's club house that night, and every one of them parted with coin of the realm to the amount of one quarter of a dollar for admission, and never a one complained that he or she didn't get all of it back in real value.
The scenery and all accessories, including the costumes, were home-made. Who can value the loving care and thoughtfulness that mothers and sisters put into every stitch of those costumes; with what interest they studied the play, as "doctored," in order that the garments might be historically correct? And who shall fittingly describe William's kilts, as made by Mrs. Turnpike from a Scottish shawl? William appeared in the first scene, without having anything to say, but the costume spoke for him. There was a shout of laughter as he walked across the stage for the first time, to be renewed when a shrill voice invited all and sundry to "pipe them legs." The audience piped them—they were encased in black stockings—and laughed again, whereupon William advanced to the front and, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the original "piper," shouted, "I'm on to you, Tom Edwards: everybody knows you're so bow-legged you wouldn't dare wear anything but long pants." It took the audience some time to recover its equilibrium, but eventually the play proceeded to the scene where Eliza made the perilous trip across the floating ice.
Eliza, a buxom girl with a heavy tread, carrying a large rag doll, made the flight very slowly. She didn't trust "them cakes of ice," knowing full well that packing cases, however stoutly built, and however ably disguised in white cheese cloth, were parlous things for a lady of her weight. The prompter urged her in an audible voice to get a move on, to which she retorted sharply, "Shut up, I ain't going to break any of my legs for fun."
But when the baying of the bloodhounds, faithfully imitated by the entire company, only partially concealed in the wings, was joined by the barking of the real live dog in the show, she began to move a little faster. She moved faster still when the real dog, a fair-sized animal of uncertain breed, wearing a stout muzzle, broke away from the "crool slave masters" and dashed towards her, and just as she lit on the last cake of ice it gave way. The excited and hilarious applause of the audience, together with Eliza's frantic screams, struck panic to the heart of the already frightened dog, which, turning towards the foot-lights, made a flying leap into the audience. Fortunately it landed on the stout knees of William's Pa, and that worthy, firmly grasping it by the neck, and thus effectually stopping its barking, carried it to the main door and threw it into the street. Whereupon the scene proceeded, the stage carpenter and his staff of one having meanwhile extricated Eliza from the cake of ice and started her on the concluding portion of her journey to safety. It was then that William, burning to distinguish himself, and having a vague notion that "Chuck" Epstein, who was in the audience, had once declared that the actor who could interpolate telling lines in his part was on a fair way to fame, advanced solemnly to the front, regardless of the dropping curtain which landed on his shoulders and flopped ungracefully around him, to declare in his loudest voice, "And I wish to say, that the man what hits a woman is a coward." William and the curtain were somehow parted by the now irate manager, but the audience insisted on the "nigger kiltie" returning to the front, while they gave him another hearty round of applause.
A lecture behind the curtain, in which the manager, the stage carpenter, Eliza and Legree, and Uncle Tom combined, seared William's soul to the centre, though he said not a word, and the play went on.
The death-bed scene, described in the home-made programmes as the "grand finally," included the appearance of "the sweet boy singer, William Adolphus Turnpike, in 'Loch Lomond.'" Little Eva was dying beautifully when the pianist, who was not at all merciful to the uncertain age and still more uncertain tone of his instrument, began the air. William, who was one of the group around the bed, advanced and began to sing. The audience ceased its snickering after the first few words to listen intently. To many it was a beloved song; they could forget the incongruous surroundings in the sweet memories it recalled, and to others it appealed, as many old-world songs do, by its plaintive sweetness. William was making a hit, and he knew it. Boy though he was, he felt to the full the bond of sympathy between himself and the audience. There was a queer sensation in his heart as he began the last verse, and he wondered if he could finish it. He had reached the second line when the voice of the prompter, imploringly pitched, begged him to "hurry it up; little Eva's bed's a falling down." William turned sharply toward the bed and, as he turned, something gave way at his waist. He rushed to the death-bed, snatched therefrom the coverlet, wrapped it majestically around him, and walked off the stage, leaving behind him a little plaid heap—the kilts. The curtain dropped suddenly in response to the manager's frantic signals. Little Eva, the boy who had also taken the part of Legree, jumped from the bed hysterically crying, "You spoiled me part," grappled madly with the manager, and while the battle raged, William Adolphus Turnpike, coverlet and all, slipped quietly out of the back door and raced frantically for home, only two short blocks away.
"When I feel gloomy, I'm good and gloomy," said William to Lucien Torrance one sunshiny afternoon in June, as they sat together in Whimple's office, their respective "bosses" being out "on business," another way of saying that they had gone to the baseball match.
"This is one day when I'm gloomy, and I just gotter gloom—it ain't no good your buttin' in and telling me to cheer up and all that kinder rot. No, sir, I just gotter gloom till it's all over."
"What have you got to 'gloom' for to-day?" ventured Lucien, "it's a bright, cheery day; the sun is——"
"The sun might be the moon for all I care," interrupted William impatiently. "I got up gloomy, and likely as not I'll go to bed gloomy. Gee! this is a rotten world sometimes."
"Maybe you're ill," suggested Lucien.
"Ill nothing—don't you ever feel gloomy?"
"Not without good cause."
"Well, I'd just hate to be you. Sometimes a song, or somebody humming a tune, sets me gloomin', or something I read, or sometimes it ain't nothing at all that I could tell. It just comes and sticks around till I don't know whether I'd sooner be a gloomer or a merry-ha-ha feller, with a smile for everybody and everything. I uster get that way in school sometimes, and I hated school bad enough, except the play time, but I sometimes wish I was back again."
"Why?"
"How the dickens do I know? Don't you?"
"No—I've made up my mind to a business career, and——"
William broke in again. "Well, you cert'nly have your mind well trained. If I had a mind like that, I'd take it out and dump it into the Bay every once in a while."
"How could I do that? I'd have to commit suicide."
"Well, you're a living suicide anyway, with a mind like yours," said William. "It's too regular, that's what it is."
They sat silent for a long time. Lucien was afraid to speak, and William was just "glooming." He turned to his comrade at last, and began, "Say, whenever I get the gloom on me, sooner or later I get to thinkin' about the first day Pete went to school. That was two years ago—and he's nine now, and maybe he don't like school. Say, he'd go without a meal rather'n be late. He's got that medal bug in his brain pan; you know the game, never late and good conduct for about seventeen years, and you get a medal that's pretty to look at and no darn good to help you get a job. There's one good thing about Pete though, even if he is a kid." He paused.
"What is it?"
"He can fight. Say, Lucien, you'd oughter see him at it. Why, last week he had three fights with one feller."
"What for?"
"Well, the guy licked him the first two times, and didn't know any better than to go around and beef about it. So Pete tackled him again and licked him good and plenty, and every day since then Pete asks him does he wanter fight again, and he says, 'No.' That's the way with some folks, they know when they've had enough, but Pete never does; he just stays with it till he wins out, then he looks for another fight. But he's cunning, Pete is, he don't fight around the school none—Pete wants that medal.
"But I was going to tell you about the first day he went to school. One morning Pa says to Ma, 'Well, what about Pete starting school?' he says.
"And Ma gets kinder white and her lips is trembly, and she says, 'I guess he'll have to go,' and she says to Pete, 'Do you wanter go to school, Pete?' and Pete says he's crazy to go.
"So Pa says to me, 'You'd better take him along, Willyum, I guess there's no need for me to go tottin' up there.'
"But Ma says to Pa, 'I'd kinder like you to take him, Joe, the first day,' she says, 'and I'll go and meet him at noon,' she says.
"And you bet Pa does what Ma asks him, he's that set on her. So Pa takes him, and I seen Ma crying when they starts, so I pikes out after 'em quick, for it makes me feel kinder queer to see Ma and Pa feeling bad about anything.
"Pa goes to the principal, and he asks Pete the same old fool things they ask every boy and girl what goes to school, and finds out Pete can read and write some, so he sticks him in the first form, and, of course, it's a lady teacher. She bends down and pats Pete on the head—he's gotter great mop of curls—and says, 'Well, my little man,' she says, 'I hope you'll be a good scholar.' 'Sure,' says Pete, 'anything to oblige a lady.' So she laughs and says, 'What did you say your full name was?' And Pete shuffles around some, and then he says, 'Peter Cornelius Turnpike,' he says.
"Well, that set some of the kids a snickerin'; and one of 'em, a boy about Pete's size, says, 'Gee! what a name.' Pete walks over to him and says, 'My Ma likes it, and anything she likes goes, see,' and with that he pastes the kid one in the eye, and right there they goes for each other fierce.
"Sure the teacher stopped 'em. Didjer ever know a woman that wouldn't stop boys fightin' or get somebody to stop 'em? She stops 'em all right, and keeps Pete in after school to give him a spiel about being good and a credit to the school and his Ma and Pa, and right there she plants the idea in Pete about getting a medal.
"When I gets out after school there's no Pete, so I ask some of the kids, and they says the teacher's talking to him. I waited around, and all of a sudden I sees Ma coming along, and I'm just going to speak to her when along comes Pa. He lets on he's just coming that way on accounter business, but his face gets a kinder red, and Ma laughs a glad little laugh. And when I told 'em about Pete being kept in, they both looks awful solemn and plunks down on the steps to wait for him. Pa, he takes one'r Ma's hands and tells her to cheer up, and Ma says she can't, she feels gloomy, and the house was awful lonesome with both the boys away. So, just when I think there's going to be a crying match, out comes Pete with his face a shining. Ma grabbed him and kissed him like she'd never stop, and Pa hoists him on his shoulder, and the procesh starts for home.
"Well, both Ma and Pa were for Pete staying home that afternoon, but not for Pete. He was crazy for school. He told 'em what he'd done, and Pa laughs and Ma tells him he'd orter be ashamed to laugh at his boy fightin' the first day he's at school. But Pa laughs some more and says, 'It ain't a bad sign,' he says; 'they gotter fight some time or other, and there's nothing like starting early,' he says.
"So Pete and me goes off to school in the afternoon, and Pa says to Ma, 'Keep a stiff upper lip, Ma, the boys are all right,' he says, and I guess Pa knows.
"There's quite a bunch in our family now, and some of 'em ain't old enough for school yet, and I s'pose Ma 'll feel gloomy about 'em when they start, same as she did about Pete."
He rose, put on his cap, and informed Lucien that he was going to look at the bulletin boards to see how the baseball team was doing. "I hope they'll lose," he added.
"Why?" Lucien demanded.
"Well, they've lost three games in a row now to the tail enders, and if they lose this one it'll make me gloomier'n ever, and maybe I'll be so gloomy there'll be no sense in it, and I'll begin to cheer up."