It was Miss Whimple who heard the first detailed account of William's experiences as a rent collector, and she heard it from William's own lips. She sent a note to the office one day, asking Whimple to send the lad up, ostensibly with some papers, "but in reality," she added, "because I want him to take luncheon with me; I want to ask him about some things."
"And if she wants to ask him she'll ask him, all right," Whimple mused to himself, "and William 'll have to answer, for Aunt is a remarkably bright woman, and a remarkably direct woman, too."
To William he said, "You'll take these papers up to Miss Whimple, and you'll take luncheon with her at her house——"
"I'll—I'll—what's that?"
"Take luncheon with her."
"Gee!" said William, and then—"Say, honest, Mister Whimple, has she gotter bunch of servants?"
"No—only two."
"A butler?"
"No—no, a maid, and a man who looks after the grounds and the horse and that kind of work."
"Gosh, I'm glad of that. The idea of me eatin' with rich folks with one of them solemn butlers that you read about standing behind me chair—why, honest, I'd choke to death on the first bite."
Leaving Whimple, William marched into Simmons' office and demanded of Lucien Torrance, "Have you gotter clean han'kerchief?"
Lucien said he had, and produced one in proof of his assertion. William snatched it from him; seized the jug of ice water, the common property of the occupants, soused one corner of the handkerchief, and calmly, but vigorously, wiped his face with it, using the unwetted portion to dry his visage. Lucien's protests had no effect on William.
"Don't get mad, Lucien," he said soothingly. "I'm invited out to eat with a lady. I gotter keep my own han'kerchief clean, and you wouldn't like me to go with a dirty face, I know. Just hang it outer the window and it'll be dry in a minute," and thereupon he departed.
Miss Whimple lived a considerable distance beyond the then city limits. She occupied what had once been a farm-house, solidly built, and surrounded by several acres of land, including a small but excellent orchard. She owned a good deal of land in the neighbourhood, now one of Toronto's finest residential districts.
As William turned into the driveway leading to the front entrance, he was hailed by a man who was cutting the grass around one of the flower beds. "What'll you be wantin', laddie?" said the grass-cutter.
"To see Miss Whimple," answered William readily.
"And what for?"
William eyed the questioner, and with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, replied quietly, "On business."
"Aye—business, they'll all be saying that. She'll no see ye, ma lad, so you better be tellin' me, and maybe I'll be able to tell ye the way to be goin' aboot it."
"What part of Scotland did you come from?" asked William sweetly. The man glowered at him—the boy went on, "You could never deny you came from Scotland, the thistles is just stickin' out on you in bunches."
"You're a verra cheeky young——" began the man, but William cut him short with, "Save your breath, Scotty, I know more about myself than you can ever guess." And then changing his tone, he asked sharply, "Do you own this place?"
"Miss Whimple is the owner, young man, and I'm thinking——"
"Don't—don't get to thinkin'. It'll stop the grass-cutting if you do; but seeing that you don't own the place I guess it's no good asking you what you'll take for it——"
"Ye young——" began the man, but whatever else he might have said he kept to himself, for at that moment a woman appeared at the front entrance of the house and called, "John, ye'll be leaving the laddie alone—Miss Whimple's expectin' him."
William walked up to the woman, lifted his cap, and asked in his best manner, "That gentleman back there a relative of yours?" She smiled at the audacity of it perhaps, but answered, "Aye, the gowk's marrit till me, but I'm sometimes feared I made a mistake takin' peety on him. Will ye come in—if your name happens to be Tur'r'rnpike."
"Well, it's something like that," answered William cordially as he stepped inside, "but it don't often get so many 'r's' slung into it."
Miss Whimple appeared in the hallway and extended a hand to William, who squeezed it heartily and hoped the lady was well. She was, she said.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said William.
"Umph—it doesn't take the boys long to follow the example of the men. Now, you don't really care a cent about my health, and you know it!"
"You're wrong, Miss Whimple," he answered, and there was earnestness in his tone. "I like people I know to be well—most of them anyway."
"You don't care whether the others are or not?"
"Well, some of 'em—some of 'em. You see there's a few wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they was well, and the others—well, never mind 'em."
That was a rare luncheon. William ate heartily and praised the cooking, two things that pleased both Miss Whimple and the maid. "I'm good and hungry," he said by way of explanation, "and Pa always says it ain't no disgrace to be hungry, and it's only a chump what won't eat all he can when he gets next to it. There's enough as can't get what they want to eat, he says, when they need it most, without anybody's what's hungry playing manners when they can get it."
He liked Miss Whimple's direct manner of speech and her habit of insisting upon answers to her determined questioning. It was in answer to her demand that he gave the story of his experiences as a rent collector, and he gave it well. He started out easily enough, but was quick to see that she was following him with keen interest; he noticed, too, that the maid had ceased altogether the "clearing away" process, and was standing by her mistress, listening with shining eyes and mouth slightly open. Their interest thrilled him, it mattered not that the audience numbered only two—it was to him as though nothing in the world mattered but the recital of his story in such a manner as that those two should live it with him. He rose as the recital proceeded and paced the floor, using the chairs occasionally to indicate the positions of himself or some of the others who had played their parts. And the women laughed and applauded, or murmured words of sympathy and understanding as the tale proceeded. It came to an end somewhat abruptly, William suddenly embarrassed, half ashamed, altogether shy, longing to get out of the house and back to the office. "And that's all," he ended curtly.
"And did Mrs. Moriarity say anything when she kissed you?" asked Miss Whimple slyly. William blushed—he did not often feel so hot and uncomfortable at a mere question. He felt a sudden rush of anger at himself for blushing, and some annoyance at Miss Whimple as the cause of it, and it was only after she had repeated the question that he answered, "Yes—she—she—says, 'God bless ye, darlint.'"
They allowed him to go finally, but it was only after Miss Whimple had exacted from him a promise that he would bring Pete and the other young members of the Turnpike family to spend a Saturday afternoon with her.
The maid accompanied him to the door, and stood watching him as he walked down the path towards the gate. William noticed that the grass-cutting operations had brought the maid's husband closer to the house. "John," said the maid, "ye'll nae be needin' tae stop the laddie wi' ony of yer fulish questions. If there's onything to tell aboot him, I'll tell it."
The man looked at her sharply, and William, as he passed him, said softly, "Gee! but you married men have the hard times." And he ducked in time to avoid a good-sized piece of wood that the man hurled at him.
William was not long in fulfilling his promise to Miss Whimple to take his younger brothers and sisters up to spend a Saturday afternoon at her house. His mother started early on the task of getting them ready, and spent an anxious hour keeping them clean and tidy until William arrived from the office and "cleaned up." She watched them, with pride and tenderness on her face, as they departed, Bessie and Joey, aged six and four years respectively, in front, where, as William put it, he could "keep an eye on 'em;" William and Pete, with Dolly, the baby, two years old, toddling along between them. As a shepherd, William herded them by street car and on foot, until they reached the Whimple house. Miss Whimple was at the gate to meet them. "Here's the bunch, Miss Whimple," he said smilingly, and then contrived to get in an aside to Pete, "Now you mind what I said about behavin' or I'll knock your block off when we gets away."
The youngsters were timid and shy. They hung to William closely for a while, with hazy notions only of what to do with themselves, and from sheer embarrassment rebuffing the kindly advances of Miss Whimple and the maid. They began to feel more at home when Miss Whimple suggested a tour of the grounds, and a visit to the barn to see the cows, two fine Jerseys, and presently they began to talk to her and to one another with freedom, all but Dolly. Miss Whimple, who was greatly taken with the little toddler, noticed that William was particularly tender toward her, his hands were ever ready to lift her, or guide her over rough ground, he suited his steps to hers when she walked, and all the time he kept up a running fire of baby talk. Dolly was all dimples and smiles; she seemed to be perfectly happy and contented, but she made no sound. It was some time before Miss Whimple noticed this, and when she said to the little one, "Such a little pet, I'll warrant you talk a lot to your mammy though," Dolly smiled at her and then turned to William her wonderful brown eyes full of questioning. William smiled back, "She likes oo, Dolly," he said softly, and then looked at Miss Whimple, his eyes moist, his lips trembling a little. He tried to speak, but could not find words. But Miss Whimple understood. Her hands went to her breast. "Oh—" she murmured, "I—I—didn't understand, William, I—I——" Down on her knees she went near one of the flower beds, pulled therefrom a rose, and, with the tears streaming, pinned the flower to Dolly's dress, saying half to herself, "Deaf and dumb—deaf and dumb—poor little mite. God bless you—and—help you."
Thereafter she made Dolly her special care, and the child seemed to like it, making occasional dashes on to the lawn to join William and the others, whose restraint having passed were playing with joyous zest, under the direction of the elder brother.
It was getting near to tea time when "Chuck" Epstein appeared on the scene. Tired of their play, the children had assembled on the verandah, Dolly sitting on Miss Whimple's knee looking over a picture book, the others listening to one of William's fairy stories. "Chuck," whose acquaintance with Miss Whimple dated back many years, took a seat near them. He was joyfully greeted by William and "the bunch," and Miss Whimple felt something like a pang of jealousy when Dolly wriggled from her knee and went to Epstein. It was only for a moment though, the child was palpably so delighted to be with the old comedian, whose smile of greeting to her was wonderfully expressive. He tenderly lifted her to his knees, and with an arm around her little body, held her close to his side. William was dethroned, and he knew it, and accepted the situation quite calmly, though he did not laugh so heartily as the others when Pete demanded, "Tell us one of your stories, Mr. Epstein, they beat Billy's to bits." And Epstein told one, and then another, and another. He acted them too. The children screamed with delight as he changed his voice to each character of the story, yes, and changed his very appearance as they watched him, and all so naturally, so easily, that they seemed to be hearing and seeing so many different people taking part in the unfolding of the tales. They were almost hanging to the old man, when the maid appeared with the announcement that tea was ready. They entered the airy dining-room, crowding around "Chuck," all begging to be allowed to sit next him, and the argument grew so heated that William had to settle it. "Dolly on one side," he said with emphasis, "and Bessie on the other, and everybody keeps quiet or gets out," and then in a loud whisper to Pete and Joey, "Don't you be makin' hogs of yourselves. No more'n three pieces of cake, mind."
But the terror of William's threats faded before the hunger of "the bunch," and the determination of Miss Whimple and the maid, to say nothing of Epstein, to see that it was appeased. Pete ate until even to chew became a decided effort, and when Miss Whimple pressed him to take "just one more piece of pie," he answered wearily, "It ain't no good, Miss Whimple—I'm full to the collar bone."
William, who had been glaring at him for some time, remarked scathingly, "Gee, you'd think you never got a square meal at home," to which Pete promptly retorted, "Well, I wasn't going to let Miss Whimple think I couldn't eat her cooking."
Tired, happy, and full, William and "the bunch" departed at last, Miss Whimple and Epstein going with them to the electric car—a quarter of a mile away from the house—the old comedian, despite the protests of Miss Whimple and William, carrying Dolly all the way. He kissed her gently as he placed her in the car, and the child threw her arms around his neck and pressed her little cheek against his for a moment ere he left.
When the car had disappeared from view, Epstein escorted Miss Whimple home. They walked in silence for a little distance, and then she asked him suddenly, "When did you first meet William?"
"Three years ago," he said smilingly. "It was a chance meeting. You know," with a touch of sadness in his voice, "the people of my race are not always kindly treated—even in so new a country as this—and so big," he went on musingly. "Who shall say what Canada is to be in the future?—I see things, I see things—a great northern power; men of many races blended together in one great nationality under the British flag. Well for her that her statesmen build truly, well for her——" he broke off abruptly, and with a quiet, "I beg your pardon, we were talking of William. I was walking along the street one day, in a section of the city where many of our people live, when a 'rags and bones man' came along trundling a well-laden push cart. Three young roughs began to bait him. They threw his cap into the middle of the street, overturned his cart, and began to attack him when William's father intervened. He was driving his express wagon near the scene. He jumped from the wagon, laid one of the roughs out with his fist, and turned on the other two. William, who had been riding with his Pa, took a hand in the proceedings then, climbing from the wagon and using the whip on the roughs. They turned and fled. William and his Pa helped the 'rags and bones man' to right his push cart, and then I introduced myself to them. The father turned my commendation aside with a good-natured remark to the effect that three to one wasn't fair play, and William added, 'What Pa says goes,' and there you are. He's a brave lad, a good lad, full of mischief I know, but—but he's full of determination too. William will go a long way. I will not live to see it; my days are few now, but I'll die the happier," he added softly, "for having known William Adolphus Turnpike."
It was a big feeling William that reported for duty on the succeeding Monday morning. "Importance" was written large on his face, and again expressed in his every action. Lucien Torrance timidly ventured several questions in the hope of elucidating the why and wherefore of William's attitude without receiving any reply. "Say," drawled William after another attempt on Lucien's part, "what's the difference between you and a clam?"
"I don't know."
"Of course you don't; a fellow like you'd never know."
"Well, what is the difference?" demanded Lucien desperately.
"Well, a clam ain't no good unless it's baked, and that's what's the matter with you, Lucien Torrance." Whereupon Lucien imitated a clam to the extent of shutting his mouth and keeping it shut.
In the afternoon, Whimple having departed to the law courts, where the growth of his business was beginning to take him quite often, William ordered Lucien to keep an eye on the office while he went across the road to study the baseball scores. "The way them Torontos is playin' on the road," he added by way of explanation, "has me goin'! They won five outer the last six games, and they're up against the Buffaloes to-day, and that's a hard team to beat. But Torontos can do it, b'lieve me—two outer three from Buffaloes my guess—have you got any?"
"No—I don't care who wins. Baseball doesn't interest me."
"What's that! Say, you're the limit; the last—the very last limit. Is there any game whatever that stirs your thick blood?"
"Lawn tennis."
"Lawn—Oh, cheese it, Lucien, cheese it. First thing I know you'll be tellin' me you play chess too."
"Indeed I do. Father is teaching me the game; we play nearly every night."
"Halt! who goes there?" William rolled out the words as though the fate of armies depended on them. "The ch-e-eld wonder of the cen-tury," he went on, waving his arms dramatically. "Pass the ch-e-eld wonder and be careful with him." He walked around the bewildered Lucien, pretending to examine his head very closely. "Ah," he said, after the first scrutiny, "now I begin to tumble." His voice was now low-pitched and full of pathos. "Now I'm getting on to the reason for those grey hairs on so young a head." He placed one hand on Lucien's shoulder, and covered his own eyes with the other. "Me boy—m-boy," he murmured brokenly, "you're breaking my heart, my strong manly heart what's held up this many a year—against who knows what. Lucien, Lucien, you're burning the gas in both jets, to say nothing of the escape in the middle. Leave me, boy—leave me to my grief."
Lucien brushed William's hand off his shoulder and blurted out angrily, "You're crazy."
"Well, I'd sooner be crazy, if I am crazy, than be sane the way you are," returned William loftily. "'Chuck' Epstein says everybody's got a looney streaker some kind; else, he says, they'd all die young. It's a tough outlook for you, Lucien," he added as he departed.
Ten minutes later William returned, bringing with him a fine bulldog attached to a stout string. William's eyes were shining, and his lips were parted in a wide grin of delight. "Say," he cried to Lucien, "get on to the pup."
Lucien didn't like the looks of the dog, and backed hastily away.
"Aw gee, he won't eat you," said William disgustedly. "He's a good one, a prize winner; and the cop says Briscombe the banker owns him."
"Well, what are you doing with him?"
"Me! The dog just nat-ur-ally adopted me, Lucien. I was standing looking at the bulletins—and the Torontos is leadin', don't you forget it—when I feels something rubbing at me leg, and here's his nibs making up kinder friendly like. So I takes hold of the string and hunts up a cop and tells him about it. And I says, 'He looks like a good dog,' I says, 'I s'pose you can take him over to the station and leave him till the owner's found.' And the cop says, 'Not for mine,' he says, 'I ain't going off my beat to be a godfather to no dog. It belongs to Mr. Bill Briscombe,' he says, 'and I'll bet he'll give you a two spot if you take it to him.' So I goes along to Briscombe's bank, and the place is shut up tighter'n a drum. Say, but them bankers has the classy hours. And Briscombe lives about a mile north of the city limits, so I guess I'll have to take the dog up there to-night."
"Well, where are you going to put him in the meantime?"
"I'll just hitch him up to Mr. Whimple's table. He won't be in till near closing time, and then he'll just tell me I needn't stay, like he usually does."
And forthwith the dog was hitched. He did not display any decided signs of displeasure, though evidently ill at ease. Lucien could not be persuaded to go near the dog, but William was quite solicitous for the animal's welfare. He fed it on tea biscuits, surreptitiously abstracted from Lucien's luncheon box—that worthy being somewhat partial to the delicacy. Also overlooking the formality of asking permission, he used Lucien's cap as a holder for a liberal helping of ice water from the office jug. The dog ate the biscuits, but spurned the ice water, which William promptly emptied from the open window. Then things happened.
When the ice water fell, most of it fell upon the head of a distinguished K.C., who was using his hat as a fan while he discussed with an acquaintance some of the questions attendant upon a provincial election then looming up. Some of the water sprinkled the K.C.'s acquaintance. Both men looked up quickly enough to note drops of water trickling from the sill of the open window, and as one, both turned and dashed up the front stairway to Whimple's office. William's hearing was acute; he did not like the sound of the hasty footsteps, and he was quick to surmise the cause. He made for the back stairway and descending in quick time, traversed the lane until, by a roundabout way, he emerged on the street, and came to a standstill at a point on the opposite side of the street, but in front of the office building.
The K.C. and his acquaintance by this time had burst into the office and dashed into Whimple's room on the run, not noticing the dog, over which the former fell full length. The bulldog had no particular grievance against the K.C., but he had a decided objection to playing cushion to him, and he snapped at the first thing he could get his teeth into. This, fortunately for the ornament of the bar, happened to be his coat tail, and on this the dog took a firm and impassioned hold. The K.C., by this time aware of the dog's presence, half rolled and half scrambled toward the door, the dog hanging so determinedly to the coat tails that, between the combined efforts of man and dog, the table began to move, and moved until it stuck at the jambs of the door. The dog could not go any further; the K.C. gave a final rolling jerk that left the dog half choked, but plus a large section of coat tail. The K.C. thereupon rose, dust-covered, his dignity gone, murder in his heart, wrath on his face.
Lucien Torrance seized this unfortunate moment to leave the office of his employer and to enter that of William's. With a cry of satisfaction, the K.C. sprang at him. "Now I have you, you young villain," he shouted, and without more ado he posed the frightened and dazed Lucien in an old-fashioned attitude across William's desk, and in a manner that bespoke some knowledge, proceeded to thrash him.
Lucien was screaming, "It wasn't me—it wasn't me," when Whimple entered the office, also on the run, flung aside the perspiring K.C., righted Lucien, whom, on his entrance, he had thought was William, and demanded angrily the meaning of the disturbance. The K.C. wrathfully explained from his point of view; Lucien tearfully, but firmly, declared that he was in no way responsible. "William—brought—the—dog—here," he sobbed, "and—he—threw—the—water out of the window." There were cries for "William," but no William responded, and all the time the dog, hanging on to the captured piece of coat tail, surveyed the scene in calm silence.
Whimple and the K.C., after some further parleying, essayed the task of releasing the dog and allowing the K.C.'s friend to leave Whimple's room. But they found themselves confronting a problem that their legal training could not solve. For the dog, thinking that they wanted his trophy, laid the piece of coat tail on the floor, placed thereon one paw, and bared his teeth for fight. Both men were angry; both men were puzzled. Each urged the other to action, and each held the other inferentially to be lacking in courage.
It was Lucien who suggested a way out. "If the gentleman in Mr. Whimple's room would get on the table from the back and cut the string, the dog would run away, I'm sure."
The plan was adopted, Whimple, Lucien, and the K.C. having first taken a strategic position in the corridor leading to the rooms of Simmons, the architect. The string was cut, and the bulldog, having again taken the piece of coat tail between his teeth, walked slowly out of the office and down the stairs to the street. William saw him emerge, and ran across the road. The dog greeted him in a friendly manner, and William, taking the now shortened string, started for Briscombe's residence, for, said he to the dog, "It looks to me like there's been some trouble, and I guess I'd better not go back to the office until the morning."
And Briscombe, the banker, gave William two dollars for bringing the dog home. "But," said he, "where on earth did he get that piece of cloth?"
"I ain't sure, but I think I could make a good guess, Mister Briscombe," said William, and thereupon he departed for home, where later he slept the profound sleep characteristic of all office boys.
William was at the office half an hour earlier than usual the next morning. He entered cautiously by the back stair, and reconnoitred carefully before closing the door. Lucien was the only person in sight. He preserved a profound silence to William's first questionings as to the happenings of the previous afternoon, but when William gave him one minute in which to decide on fighting or telling the story, he told. His narrative was curt and his demeanour cold: it became quite frosty when William laughed delightedly over the recital of the thrashing Lucien had received.
"Where did he hit you, Lucien?" asked William when the story had been told.
"In this room," answered Lucien with dignity, and William roared again.
Lucien waited until the laughter died away and then called attention to the fact that there was a letter on William's desk. "You're right for once, Lucien," said William, who had noticed the letter on first entering the room. He picked it up, aware that Lucien was watching him closely, and feeling certain that the letter did not contain good news for him. Therefore he slipped it into his pocket and walked out of the office to the Bay front, where, with his feet dangling over one of the wharves, he slowly opened the envelope and unfolded the enclosure. The letter was as follows:—
"DEAR WILLIAM,—In view of the events of this afternoon, the full details of which by the time you get this you will doubtless have gleaned from Lucien, it is impossible that you should longer remain in my employ. I am very sorry to lose you, but there is a limit to the length that even an office boy can be allowed to go.
"Yours sincerely,"CHAS. WHIMPLE."
"Fired!" said William to himself, "fired! Well, I ain't surprised. Tough luck though." He read the letter through again, and continued his soliloquy. "Well, after this, no more dogs for me. Gee—but I hate to leave that place. It beats the band how things will turn out rotten just when the luck seems to be all right."
But William didn't spend much time in regrets. The day was blazing hot, the civic tug for the free baths off the Island sand bar was about to leave the wharf, and he constituted himself a part of the noisy human freight with which it was laden. He had a glorious swim, and at noon time surprised the Turnpike household by arriving for luncheon, having during his business career eaten that meal—packed by his mother's hands—in the office. Quite frankly, and with the mimicry which was the pride of his father and a constant source of astonishment to his mother, he related the whole story. His mother grieved despite her laughter: his father laughed and sorrowed not. "It'll come out right in the end," he said philosophically, "and if it don't, you'll soon get another job."
"Sure," said William; "don't you worry, Ma," he added. After the meal he departed, his head full of a plan that had been nebulous only after his first reading of the letter, but which now seemed to promise much. The more he thought it over, the better he liked it, and despite the heat, he walked quickly to the "Emporium" of one Walter Wadsworth. Walter was the owner, manager, and entire staff of the "Emporium," which consisted of a rickety two-storied structure with a shooting gallery on one side, and a peanut, candy, tobacco, and fruit department on the other side. Walter, whose friendship with William was as old almost as the boy himself, owned the building and the land, as well as a more valuable property near by. But his greater claim to importance, in the opinion of most of the boyhood of Toronto, lay in the fact that for years he had held the refreshment privileges in the baseball park.
After a few preliminaries, William said, "The team's due next week, ain't they?"
"According to schedule," answered Walter, a thick-set, pleasant-faced, middle-aged man, who wasted few words, and who, in his day, had been a star of the diamond.
"How's the chances for a job?"
"I thought you were in the law business, young fellow?"
"Well—I was kinder makin' a dab at it."
"Chucked it already?"
"No," said William, "it kinder chucked me.
"Umph! Watcher want?"
"Well, what's the matter with me having a basket and selling stuff around the stands?"
"You're on, William: you're on. I've had an awful bunch of dubs on the job so far this season, and I'd be glad to let you have a try."
"All right: and what do I get for it?" asked William in a business-like tone.
"Well, of course, you see the game for nothing."
"Yes—" said William, slowly, "or some of it, between sales."
"Well, I never knew any one of the boys yet but could give all the details of the game, whether his sales were good or not. I guess you won't miss much of any of the games."
"Go on—I see the games free," said William, "and——" he paused.
"And you get ten cents commission on every dollar's worth of stuff you sell."
"Any of the boys ever say they got too much?" inquired William, with a pretence of eager interest.
Walter smiled. "Not that I remember," he answered, "but they don't do so bad."
"All right," said William, "I'll be on hand for Monday's game. But I can't afford to be loafin' until then. Anything doin' before that?"
"This place ain't had a cleaning up since I don't know when," replied Walter, "and there's a lot of old boxes in the back yard that have to be broken up for firewood sooner or later, and stored in the cellar. Want to tackle the job? There's a few dollars in it anyway."
"Sure," said William, and set to work forthwith. He toiled steadily in the Emporium, but not with his usual cheerfulness, for he was really sorry to be away from Whimple's office. The more he thought of the causes leading up to his dismissal, the more he wished that Lucien had been responsible. "He got the lickin' anyway," said William to himself with a smile, "but darn a fellow like that: I wonder if he ever made a fool of himself in his life."
It was at this moment that William noticed a large megaphone, one of Walter's cherished possessions, in the back part of the Emporium. "Say, Walter," he cried excitedly, "let me have a crack at the megaphone."
"Go ahead," said Walter good-naturedly, "but don't blame me if you get pinched for disturbing the peace."
William carried the megaphone upstairs, rested one end on the sill of the open window, and took a critical survey of the passers-by on the street.
"Wow!" he cried aloud, and as though addressing some one in the room; "look who's acomin'." He hastily adjusted the megaphone, waited until he thought the person he had spoken of was within striking range, and then there arose a weird shriek that attracted the attention of everybody within seven blocks of the Emporium. It filled the heart of one boy momentarily with fear, and brought him to a sudden standstill without at once becoming acquainted with the source of the noise. He looked around bewildered, and, as he looked, voices seemed to bellow in both his ears, "Good evening, Lucien. How many stamps did you lick to-day?"
Several people halted, irresolute, eventually focussing their gaze on Lucien, who, having now noticed the megaphone, was staring towards it like one under the influence of hypnotism. Again a question bellowed forth from the megaphone, "Oh, Lucien: where did he hit you?" and Lucien, waking up to the truth of the situation, for once displayed some evidences of his youth. He shook his fists towards the open window, and cried out threats of vengeance on William, but those were soon drowned in another blast from the megaphone. "Get on to Lucien, ladies and gents, the chee-ild wonder of the century." It was then that Lucien, with a final shake of his fists, turned and fled. William laid the megaphone away and walked down the stairs, to find Walter at the door gazing after the fleeing Lucien.
"That kid was hollering something about knocking your block off," said Walter. "He seemed to be sore on you."
"Maybe he is," answered William, slyly, "but yesterday he was sore for me."
During the next few days William found plenty of work to do at the Emporium, and in the intervals of leisure he consulted gravely with Walter Wadsworth on the methods to be followed to attain success as a pedlar of refreshments in the stands of a baseball park. He did not, however, neglect his morning lessons with "Chuck" Epstein in Tommy Watson's auctioneering rooms. There is this to be added too, that neither Epstein nor Tommy questioned him as to the loss of his position with Whimple. They had laughed with the latter over the causes therefor, but as William did not mention it himself, they carefully avoided opening up the question, knowing from their experience with him that, in his own way, and at a time of his choosing, the lad would talk of it.
William was, however, a puzzle to Wadsworth, though he had been acquainted with him so long. In the intimacy of their relationship at the Emporium, Wadsworth found himself constantly amazed at the lad's shrewdness, at his vocabulary of slang, the readiness with which he could turn from the sheerest of jibing and fun-making to the recital of a bit of "Bill Shakespeare," or a scene from the plays of other authors. "Where on earth do you get it all from?" he asked William one afternoon when the lad, with real dramatic fire, had recited "Henry's oration to his men before Agincourt." You, dear reader, know it, of course.
"Outer books," William said, all slang and smiles again. "Say, Walter, it beats the band and the good stuff some of them guys had in their think-tanks, and it fits in, a lot of it, like they were toddlin' around Toronto to-day."
"It certainly does—some of it," said Walter. "I wonder if they ever played baseball in those days?"
"Not so far as I can make out," answered William. "Half their time they were fighting, and the other half making love: that is, most of 'em. Our friend Bill Shakespeare and a few others were writing plays and acting them too."
Walter stood at the door for a minute and watched William as the latter walked away from the Emporium that evening, and to himself he said, "He's a corker that one; but there's a heap of boy in him. If there wasn't, that stuff he's carrying around in his brain would soon drive him to the daffy house."
The great day arrived at last, and William, keen for business and a new experience, reported early at the baseball grounds, where Walter Wadsworth supplied him and a dozen other boys with uniforms of white cotton. The caps bore in letters of gold an appeal to buy a certain baking powder, and on the back of the coats, in black letters, was an announcement regarding the charms of a particular brand of chewing tobacco.
"It's a shame," said William with sarcasm, "that there ain't any reading on the pants."
"Yes, it is too bad," answered Walter, solemnly, "but you can never get everything you want in this world. I get the caps and the suits free for the advertising they have on 'em; they're not so bad, it might be worse."
"It might be," answered William, "but not much," as he departed for his section of the grand stand with a basket hanging from his neck and a small megaphone attached to one wrist with a strap. In the stand, William's courage deserted him for a few minutes: the crowd was large and included many ladies. The lad was uncomfortable; his voice seemed to have deserted him utterly. All the fine things he had meant to say were for the moment forgotten. It was not until a woman had purchased a bag of peanuts, and a man a cigar, that William became convinced that his goods were wanted, and that restored some of his usual confidence. He began to call out his wares and found that sales were easily made, though not so rapidly as he had hoped. But as the game progressed, his courage steadily rose. The Toronto team was playing that of Buffalo, an ancient and honorable enemy, and the game, in its initial stages, was very close. With the score one to one in the third innings, William found that his voice had come back, and he began to use it with all his power and most of his courage.
"Peanuts, popcorn, chewing gum, candy, cigars, and tobacco," he shouted as he walked along the aisles: "here's where you get 'em at the lowest prices and finest qual-ity."
The responses were becoming readier, but not fast enough, and William began to use the megaphone. Taking a stand in front of the lowest seat and addressing the crowd impartially he asked, "Did all you folks leave your money at home, or ain't you never had any?" Some of the people laughed, and the emboldened William went on, "Ladies, what's the good of a ball game without peanuts or chewing gum? I've got a lot of both to sell," and that resulted in a goodly number of sales. Then he tried again. "There's lots of fellows here with girls, and it's a shame the way they're letting the girls suffer for a little candy, or chewing gum, or peanuts. Make the fellows loosen up, girls!" The crowd laughed, and William tried in vain to respond to the demands for his wares from all quarters. His basket was soon emptied, and in a little while he had disposed of his second load. He sold others, but when the game had advanced to the sixth innings, with the score still one all, he found the people almost unresponsive to his appeals, and, returning to Walter's little store under the grand stand, changed into his street clothes and rushed back to see the finish of the game, his first venture as a pedlar having netted him the sum of fifty cents.
The game had reached its critical stage, "the fatal seventh innings," when William again made his appearance known. The crowd was painfully silent, for the Buffaloes, with only one man out, had men on the first and second bases, and the heaviest hitter of their team at the bat. The batsman spat on his hands, wiped them off in the dust around the home plate, and set himself firmly for a swing. The Toronto pitcher having almost succeeded in tying himself into a bow knot suddenly unloosened, and sent in a swift drop ball, and even as it sped the voice of William, well modulated through the megaphone, but quite distinct, cried out, "Strike one." Strike it was, the batter missing the sphere by several feet, and following the miss there came in stentorian tones from the umpire the words, "Strike one."
"Why did you call it a strike before?" yelled the batsman.
"Never opened my mouth," retorted the umpire, and the crowd laughed.
The batsman again set himself for a swing, and the pitcher once more tried to make a human knot; again the ball shot, this time straight and true for the plate, and as it did, William, with a volume of agonised pleading in his voice, yelled, "Mind your head." Instinctively the batter ducked and, of course, missed the ball, while the umpire dispassionately cried, "Strike two." The batter grieved loudly and bitterly. He accused the umpire of having eyes like a codfish, and of being stampeded by "some guy in the stand." He declared him to be incompetent to the verge of insanity, and wondered, in a voice that could be heard all over the field, how he had kept out of the asylum so long. His team mates supported him loyally, and incidentally demanded of the Toronto team's manager that William, whom they had discovered as the source of the heavy batter's discomfort, be instantly removed from the grounds and kept therefrom until the game was over, while the impatient, but delighted crowd, cried at intervals, "play ball," "put 'em off," "give the game to the Torontos."
The manager of the Torontos disclaimed all or any responsibility for William. "Nay, nay, Pauline," he said gently, when the Buffalo manager repeated his request, "if the boy annoys you, put him out yourself, or ask the police to do it."
"You know what'd happen if I tackled that boy," answered the Buffalo man heatedly: "why, that crowd would eat me."
"Not in your present condition," retorted the Toronto man affably, "you're too hot."
The Buffalonian appealed to a police constable, but that worthy shook his head. "There's only me and a sergeant here," he said, "and we ain't over anxious to start a riot." The sergeant strolled up and was consulted.
"It can't be done," he said sagely, "there isn't a section under the law or the regulations governing the force that'd justify me putting the kid out. He ain't hurting anybody anyway."
"But he's putting our man on the pork," cried the Buffalonian disgustedly; "how in the name of Uncle Sam is the team to go on playing with that kind of a racket!"
"It's nothing to the racket there'll be if you don't go on with the game," said the sergeant quietly, as he walked back to the stand. And the game went on. The batter was struck out on the next ball, and the crowd shrieked its delight, the innings closing without a score.
When the eighth innings started, William, all swagger and confidence, started on a new tack. "Fans and fan-esses," he said, addressing the crowd through the megaphone, "why don't you root? Make a noise like you meant it. The Torontos have simply gotter win this game; they need it, but you gotter help 'em. Now then, every-body—ROOT," and "root" they did, arduously, continuously, joyously. The din was terrific, ear-splitting, and weird. Everybody had a different idea as to the best methods of rooting, and even the fanesses made noises of sorts. Nobody thereafter heard what the umpire said, they gathered his decisions only by the result of the various plays, and when, in the ninth and last innings, the Torontos batted out the winning run, one prolonged wild "root" spread the glad tidings to all and sundry outside the gates for many blocks around.
William, with a final yell through the megaphone, hurried back to Walter Wadsworth's stand, and there ran into Whimple and Simmons, who were pledging each other in glasses of lemonade. The boy paused irresolutely.
"William," said Whimple, who was also rather embarrassed, "was it fair?"
William smiled. "Well, Mister Whimple," he said, "when that bunch was here once last season for a series of five games, my Pa took their stuff from the station up to the hotel in one of his express wagons, and I was with him, so, of course, I helped to lift the stuff off the wagon, and when I'm through the same manager what they have this year slips something into my hand and I thought it was a dime, and he says to me, 'I hate to give a Canuck anything,' he says, 'but you are a bright chap, only don't spend it all at once,' and when he goes into the hotel I opens up my hand, and there's one of them dinky little American cents. You bet I was mad, but my Pa says to me, 'It's mostly a long street that don't have cross streets, William,' he says, 'so, keep your hair on.' I did, and I guess me and that Buffalo man are quits now."