The real awakening of William to the sterling qualities of Lucien Torrance came with the Binks' knitting factory fire. The story was told in full detail by the newspapers at the time, but the public memory is not long, and, because this is a record of facts, it is here re-told, from the view-point of William and Lucien. The factory, in which some sixty girls were employed, was a three-story building, facing the rear of the building in which were located the offices of Whimple and Simmons. On one side it ran so close to the latter building that even the boys could, by a little stretching, touch the sill of a window to the right of the window in the room that served as office for William and waiting-room for his employer's clients.
The fire broke out one hot afternoon in August in the lower floor of the factory, and, as the building was "modern and fire-proof," the flames naturally spread at a terrific rate. Some thirty of the girls managed to escape from the lower floor at once. The escape of the others was cut off completely, the one iron ladder, designated as a fire escape, and running down to the ground, being, on its lower rungs, "wrapped in flame," as the reporters have it.
William and Lucien, who had been making faces at some of the girls at the time the fire broke out, were shocked into helplessness for a moment. Lucien recovered first. "Quick," he said, grasping William by the arm, "we can help." He half pulled William into Simmons' room, "Grab the other end," he commanded, curtly, himself seizing one end of what appeared to be a long table top. In reality it consisted of three stout planks braced together underneath, and resting on scantling supports. Several plans were pinned to the top, and these Lucien yanked off without ceremony. Between them the boys carried the table top to the window, and, though for a few seconds it seemed that their combined strength was not equal to the demand on it, they succeeded in placing one end of it on the sill of the open factory window, around which the imprisoned girls were gathered, some screaming wildly, others pale-faced, but quiet. A rough bridge was thus formed between the factory and Whimple's office. Lucien crossed it first, with William a close second. The boys urged the girls to "get a move on, one at a time," but it was not until William had escorted the heaviest one across to Whimple's office that the others, despite the rapid approach of the fire, could be persuaded to venture. Convinced of the safety of the "bridge," they began to make the journey rapidly enough. Lucien calmly and quietly encouraged them. William said nothing, but he carried out with alacrity every suggestion Lucien made.
By this time a detachment of the fire brigade was on the scene. Three of the firemen, with a hose, rushed up the front stairs of Whimple's office and to the window through which the girls were coming.
"Well, I'll be swizzled," said one of them, excitedly, "who made the bridge?"
One of the girls paused a moment before leaving the office. "Two boys," she cried, hysterically, "they're in the factory helping the other girls."
"Bully for them," shouted one of the firemen. The next moment he hurried across the "bridge," which bore his weight splendidly, and assisted the boys. Other firemen, with more hose, arrived, and several streams of water were soon playing on the factory walls below the "bridge."
"We'll save this building, anyway," said one of the firemen, handling a hose from one of Whimple's windows. And save it they did.
As the last girl crossed the bridge, the fireman who had been assisting Lucien and William ordered them to get out quickly. The big room was now full of smoke, the lads and the firemen were almost choked with it, and tongues of flame were beginning to lick one of the wooden partition walls. Just as the man spoke, the partition fell. A burning scantling struck Lucien on the head and sent him to the floor. In a moment William grabbed the burning timber with his bare hands and tried to lift it, but without the assistance of the fireman, who inserted his hook-axe under it, and added a man's strength to that of the boy's, he would not have been successful. Lucien was still conscious when they picked him up, and, with the assistance of William, made the journey across the "bridge" to Whimple's office in safety. Here kindly hands temporarily bound up his wounds and those of William too, the latter meanwhile asserting loudly, "Lucien did it; he thought of it; Lucien did it."
Finally, Lucien's parched and cracked lips parted in a smile. "Couldn't have done it without you, William," he gasped, and then the floor, so William Adolphus Turnpike afterwards solemnly asserted, rose up and hit him, and he knew nothing more until, in the evening, he woke up in a private ward in St. Michael's Hospital. There were only two beds in that ward. When William opened his eyes, a kindly faced nursing sister was bending over him.
"Where's Lucien?" he demanded.
The sister smiled. "In the bed near you," she said, gently; "his mother and father have just left him; he's——"
William sat straight up in the bed. "Say," he said, brokenly, "he ain't going to die, is he?"
"No," she answered, "he's doing splendidly, and he's fast asleep."
William laughed happily. "Oh, but he's a pippin, a real pippin; and me thinking he was a dub. If he wakes up, and I'm asleep, nurse, you can tell him from me that I'm a mutt. He's the real thing, is Lucien." Then he looked down at his hands, swathed in bandages, and grinned. "Kinder early for winter mitts," he said. "Gee, but my hands sting! Has my Ma and Pa been here?"
"They're here now, waiting to see you. They've been here for two hours, William."
"Two hours! and me lying on the downy while they're worryin'. Me—uh!—I ain't worth it."
The sister opened the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Turnpike, with anxious faces and eyes somewhat dimmed, were soon bending over their boy, kissing him, and whispering words of love and praise and sympathy. After their farewells, William turned to the sister with shining eyes. "Nobody ever had a Ma and Pa like mine," he said, "and my hands are sore, but I'm tired—tired—" he closed his eyes—"and I'm a mutt. Lucien's got it on me all over when it comes to a show down." And William slept.
There followed a strange experience for the two boys. Reporters interviewed them, and the interviews mostly read as though the boys were past masters in the use of correct English. One enterprising reporter wrote up William's story just as the lad gave it. The majority of readers appreciated that interview because the lad's language appealed to them, but by the time the editor of the newspaper in which it appeared had read the third letter from "pro bono publico," protesting against the putting of so much slang into the mouth of a mere child, he regretted that he had not made the reporter re-write it. Being human, he, of course, lectured the reporter with asperity, and the reporter, being a man of spirit, instead of taking the lecture to heart, resigned, entered the field of literature, and, in a comparatively short time, became a noted writer of short stories. He blessed William at the time and ever afterwards for opening his eyes to the possibilities of the boy in fiction—and fact.
Two days in the hospital was enough for William. He gave his ultimatum to Ma and Pa after the mayor had called upon Lucien and himself to express admiration "on behalf of the citizens of Toronto," and informed them that they were to be presented with gold watches "as a permanent token of appreciation of their bravery."
William insisted on going home that day. "Another day here," he said, "with bunches of people buttin' in and slobberin' over me, and I'm a dead one. Besides! it was all Lucien; I'm no bloomin' hero."
Lucien was sick of it too, but, because his injuries were the more serious, he had perforce to stay a little longer in the hospital.
The presentation of the watches was made in the mayor's office one week after the fire. It was a painful ceremony, so far as the boys were concerned, and they were immensely relieved when the last word had been said, and their admiring parents were allowed to proudly escort them to their respective homes.
It required the combined efforts of Whimple, Epstein, and Watson to persuade William to take a two weeks' holiday before returning to work. He didn't want to go to the country: knew he would die after two days there: was positive he was as strong and as able to work as he ever had been: and, in short, he wouldn't go. Watson wormed the truth out of him after an hour's private talk. "I'm just crazy about keeping up my lessons with Mister Epstein," said William, finally; "I feel that I can't afford to miss one; I wanter be something, Tommy, and I'm finding out every day how much of a dub I am."
Tommy suppressed a strong desire to whoop; the spirit of the lad was so manifest; his earnestness so marked. But, as calmly as possible, he said, "Don't worry on that score, William, a rest will do you good. Besides, if you go where Mr. Whimple wants you to, you'll not miss a great deal. I know the boys in that family. They're clean; they have a good library, and—oh well, you go! Remember the proverb: 'It's better to go slow sometimes, than to hustle all the time.'"
William was back at work two weeks before Lucien, who, on leaving the hospital, had also gone to the country. The boys greeted each other cordially the day Lucien returned, and spent some time, on the first opportunity afforded, in recounting their experiences. Lucien told his in a plain, matter-of-fact way, and declared he was immensely relieved to be back again.
"Well," said William, when it came to his turn, "I'm glad to be back too. Not that I didn't like it. Say, after the first day, I enjoyed ev'ry minute. I went to the Millers' farm at Varency, in Haldmand County, and maybe they ain't THE PEOPLE. B'lieve me—well—say, honest, Lucien, all the fool things I uster think about farmers, callin' 'em 'Rubes' and 'Hayseeds,' and such like, and about their work and houses and everything, makes me feel like kicking myself from here to home, and that's quite a walk. If I was oner them kind that wakes up in the night and thinks about the past, I'd blush in the dark for the fool I was. But when I falls asleep it's me's a log till somebody yells in my ear that breakfast's ready. Anyway, what I used to think about farmers is buried deep, with a lot more foolish truck I've been getting rid of this last few weeks.
"Say, there's three fellows there, Emerson, Laird, and George, and every one of 'em's over six feet, and wide too, and smart, uh! Laird, he's a schoolmaster already, and you'd orter hear him telling stories about them old Romans and Greeks, and explainin' things that a dub like me's sure to get stuck on. The other two they say one schoolmaster to a family's enough, and it's them sticking to the farm, and they ain't no slouches on farming neither. They've read an awful lot, and attended lectures, and got things down fine. They doctor the horses and cattle when they're sick, and, unless they break a leg or something like that, they doctor themselves too. Emerson, he's a swell re-citer. Honest, Lucien, he'd make you laugh, or cry, or anything, with the pieces he knows by heart, let alone what he can do with pieces he ain't never seen before when he reads 'em out for the first time. And George, he can clog-dance, and play the banjo like a pro-fessional. And the girls are smart too; there's four of 'em. Gee! I thought I'd have to go home long before two weeks was up, they were so kind to me. The boys and their Dad—they always called him that—uster work like blazes from daylight, and often before, right on until evenings, and then we'd sit around on the porch after supper, and—and——" he broke off abruptly.
"Yes?" said Lucien, quietly, after a moment's silence.
"Say, Lucien, did you ever get a hunch all of a sudden, just when you're enjoyin' yourself, that it'll never be the same again?"
Lucien answered with a prim, "Oh, yes—sometimes."
William went on, "Don't it grip your heart—don't it? We'd be sitting there—the house is built on pretty high ground, and on one side there's quite a valley, with a little stream running through it; they call it a river, but it ain't; and lots of big trees, and some willows. And our old friend, the moon, would be glummerin' around, and making paths on the water, and you'd hear the frogs, and crickets, and sometimes the creaking that the wagons would make as they passed. That's all; there wouldn't be another sound for a while, and then Emerson'd begin to recite, or George would play the banjo, or Laird would tell us stories about them old fighters long ago. And all of 'em know the names of the stars—whatjer think of that?—and they'd talk about them like they were old friends, especially their Dad, for he came from Scotland and was a sailor. Oh! it was great—great. Then some one would begin to sing, and everybody would join in the chorus. First, they'd sing somer the new songs; then the comic ones; then it would be 'Annie Laurie,' 'Will ye no come back again,' 'The Low-backed Car,' 'Willie, we have missed you,' 'Nellie Grey,' 'My Old Kentucky Home'—all the old-timers. I'd join in too, and one night when we were singing 'Will ye no come back again,' that think tank of mine got outer gear someway, and starts a hammerin' on one thought: 'It'll never be the same again—never—never—never,' and it made me feel bad, I tell you, but I went on singing. I had that kinder feeling three or four times after. It sounds crazy, don't it, Lucien? but, oh, it's true, it's true! But, don't you forget it, I had a bully time. I don't know when I really liked it most; in the early morning, when everything's bright and fresh, or at night, when it's still, like I'm tellin' you. There's one thing I noticed about the nights, too, that got me going."
"What's that?"
"The stars. Say, Lucien, they seem to be so much closer than they do in the city; and more of 'em: that's because there ain't so many buildings, and you can see more sky. Sally used to say——"
"Sally!"
"Yes, Sally! she's the youngest, and at that she's a little older'n I am. And there ain't no mother in that house, because their mother died just when Sally was a kiddie, and they're all mothers and fathers to her."
"William—is it——?"
"Now, hold on, Lucien; hold on. Don't bite on anything until you're sure you can swallow it. Say, she's a wonder, Sally is! There's been something wrong with her spine for about four years, and she can't walk, 'cept once in a while she kinder hobbles slow around the table. They have a big wheel chair for Sally, and always when it's fine they wheel her out on to the verandah, and there she sits for hours an' hours. You'd think she's have a grouch being the way she is, but, honest, Lucien, she's enough to make all the grouchers get a hunch to throw themselves off the earth, she's that chirpy. Laugh! she's got a laugh 'ud chase the blues outer anybody; but she's mighty sad too, sometimes, when she thinks no one ain't watchin' her. Sally's a wonder, Lucien—and she's got big brown eyes, and brown hair fallin' all around her face, and the sweetest mouth——"
Lucien had occasional flashes of originality, and struck in with one. "Sweetest—the sweetest——"
"Yes," said William, firmly, though he blushed slightly, "sweet. And if you're trying to be wise about me getting tangled up with the fair sex the way you think, cut it out, cut it out. You're on the wrong track, and the danger signal's set against you. But she's certainly a wonder. Sometimes I'd be two or three hours in the field with the boys, and maybe it ain't enough to keep a fellow's think tank humming, to try to learn a quarter of what they know about the soil, and what to do with it, and about the insects, and roots, and everything. Then if I'd get tired I'd go and sit on the porch by Sally, and we'd just talk, or perhaps we'd both have a book, and just sit there readin', and I'd get tired readin', and begin to think about things, and one day, when I'm doing that I turns sudden, and Sally's looking at me, and she says, 'Yes, it is a big world, Willie'—they all called me that—she says, 'and we're none of us nearly so im-port-ant as we like to think we are.' Gee! I almost swallowed me neck, for I was just thinking that; and she read my thoughts often like that, as easy as—— Oh, well; I told her all about my plans, and what I mean to be, and—and—I've got to get busy and write to her now. I promised to."
Lucien smiled slightly.
"Rub off the smile, you hero," said William, pleasantly, himself smiling too; "there's none of that love business going into my letters."
Sally read that letter, sitting in the porch in her wheeled chair; first to herself, and later aloud to all the members of the family. It was scarred by blots and erasures; in some places William had obviously "stuck" on words, and, after writing them as he thought they should be spelled, had consulted the dictionary to make sure, and had re-written them.
This is what Sally read:—
"DEAR SALLY,—The Toronto baseball team is on the top of the heap again, and all the rest of the bunch is laying around like old tin cans waiting for the garbage man to collect them. Looks like the pennant for us. I'm half crazy about the team, so's Tommy Watson, and the other half of him's bughouse about Flo Dearmore, so he's a rare subject.
"Lucien's all right now. He's surprising me all the time. A husky kid came into the office to-day with a message and got kind of sassy when I told him the boss was out on business, so I gave him a swat in the eye, and he was just about wiping the floor with me when Lucien tackled him, and in about five minutes that kid was a sight to see. He cried fierce, but Lucien wouldn't quit till he said he'd behave himself the next time. So I says to Lucien, 'Well, if you ain't the artist with your fists; where in Sam Hill did you pick that up?' and he says his Pa used to be a pretty good boxer and gave him lessons. And me thinking yet in spite of the fire that he was a kind of sissy boy. So I began to believe what Tommy Watson says, that you can't tell what's in a fellow until he has a chance to show it, and lots of fellows ain't going around hunting up chances, they just wait till one comes. Anyway, Lucien's a pippin.
"My Pa got another man to work for him, and he's bought a team of mules. Mules are the dickens to work steady all the time. Pa says he don't know yet which has the most sense, the mules or the new man, but the man's good and honest, and the more work he gets, the more he smiles, and smiles is about all the language he has. I never saw a man what could say so much with a smile. Honest, the horses and mules get frisky the minute he gets into the stable, like they were saying, 'Here he is, cheer up.' When he gets them, Pa tells the bunch at home the mules ain't brought up in no riding school, but Pete's not hearing very well or something, and the first chance he gets tries to prove Pa's wrong. So Pete's going around now with six stitches on the front of his brain works, and he's that wise about mules a mule doctor couldn't beat him.
"I told Ma and Pa a lot about you, and Pa says he'd like to know you. He's great on people what has a lot to put up with, and don't shout about it. And Ma she looks at Dolly, and says, 'God bless her,' meaning you.
"Jimmy Duggan, you remember I told you all about him, he wants to bring in some bills when the Provincial House meets, and he says to ask your father and the boys to think something up, because he says the city people have so many crazy schemes he's afraid to try anything for them. So ask them, please.
"My feet are tired chasing letters to you know who for Mister Whimple. She's a fine lady though, and I hope the boss will marry her. When I took a note up yesterday, she was talking to me about my visit, so I told her a lot of things I thought she's like and about your brother George going courting, and she says, 'It's a terrible thing this love, William,' and I asked her does she suffer much from it. So she blushes awful red, and looked prettier than ever, and says kind of like she didn't remember I was around, 'Most women do—most women do, and I never really knew until now what love was.' Now what do you think of that, and her married once before! Mister Simmons, he's Lucien's boss, he says her husband was an awful booze fighter right till he died, and my Pa says there ain't any man yet that's ever been able to win a fight against booze so long as he's willing to let booze get into his inwards.
"I guess this letter will make you awful tired, specially if it's a hot day, but there's seems to be so much I'd like to tell you. You remember the old man I told you about that I collect rent from, the fellow that has rheumatics. He's getting quite chummy with me now. I was there the other day, and he hardly swore at all. He says he's sorry he's wasted so many good cuss words on me when he's got so many relatives waiting for him to die so's they can get his money. Honest, the way he curses about those people is awful. I told Tommy Watson about him one day, and Tommy says the Good Book is dead against wasting anything. A man like that, he says, could make a great hit by saving all his curses for one year, and then letting them loose on one of the people he don't love. Whoever got them would never forget, and they'd think more of Mister Jonas than they do with him throwing curses around as though they were cheaper than newspapers.
"Tommy's got a great set of hired help in his store. One of them's from Aberdeen, and the other from London, England, and you ought to hear them. Say, they're fighting all the time about the battle of Bannock-Burn, a million years ago or so. I butted in one day, and says, 'Well, ain't that battle over long ago?' and I got what was coming to me all right, just like butters-in usually does. They got me in a corner and talked at me for half an hour straight. When one would stop to draw his breath, the other would go on talking. I began to feel sick—real sick—no joking, and all of a sudden I burst out laughing. I don't know what for, I didn't want to laugh, I felt more like crying, but, by ginger, I couldn't stop. I laughed, and laughed, and then some more, and the tears were running down my cheeks all the time, and I was rolling around like I had wheels for feet. So those two ninnies began to look solemn, and the Englishman shook me a bit, but I couldn't stop. Then he began to snicker like a chump, and first thing he knew he was hanging over one of Tommy's bargain bedsteads just laughing, laughing, laughing, though it was more like crying too. The Scotchman started next, and every time he laughed he rolled into something until he fell on the floor and just lay there laughing.
"I suppose we'd be laughing yet or else dead of it, only Tommy came in. He took one look around and his face got awful white. He asked me something, but I could only sputter, then he tried the Scotchman, but he only rolled some more—gee! it makes me giggle to think of it. So Tommy rushed to the 'phone and called up a doctor, and then he ran out of the store and got a cop, and when he gets him in he says to the cop, 'They're dying,' and the cop says, 'Like blazes they're dying,' he says. So that got me going worse than ever, and the cop was beginning to snicker too. So he pulls out his baton and he yells out, 'I'll knock the block off the first yap that lets out another laugh,' and he gives the Englishman a poke in the slats to show he meant it. And you bet we quit on the spot. Me, I made a grand sneak the minute I found I could stand straight, and just as I'm getting out, in rushes a doctor. Tommy told me after he had to give the doctor four dollars, but the money was nothing to the way he sweated trying to explain.
"The next time I write I hope it'll be better written. I've found a place where I can take night lessons three times a week in history and reading and writing, and you bet I'm taking them.
"With best wishes to everybody and hoping George is getting along all right with his courting.
"W. A. T.
"P.S.—Lucien is showing me how to box every chance we get."
William deliberately omitted from his letter a conversation with Miss Whimple regarding Sally. He had made a special journey to see the lady because he remembered hearing her say something about wonderful cures at a certain hospital to the work of which she had given time and money. She heard him through, touched by the depth of his feeling for the sufferer, and promised to make inquiries of the surgical staff as to what could be done.
"Don't be too hopeful, William," she said, kindly, "they cannot really tell until they see the patient. But they've done almost everything except furnish new spines; and goodness knows there are many people who ought to have them if they could be made. There are too many jellyfish men and women in the world to-day, William."
Reformations are slow—except when they're sudden. Some reformations—of individuals as well as nations—have followed upon years of effort, toil, and suffering: others have been materially accelerated by the use of the axe. William's acquaintance with the axe was limited to its use as an instrument for occasional spells of firewood-chopping: but at heart he was a reformer, and, unlike most reformers—judging them, of course, by the doubtful value of histories—he started upon himself. Tenacity was William's greatest asset; when he adopted a line of action he "stayed with it," to use his own expressive phraseology. Having found the place spoken of in the letter to Sally, where he could take night lessons in history, reading, and writing, William became an attentive and consistent attendant. Tommy Watson and Whimple were fearful lest he should undertake too much, finally tire of everything, and lapse into a drifter. Epstein ridiculed their fears and scorned their arguments. "Leave the boy alone," he said, "he knows what he wants, and he'll get it."
There were glorious nights when William longed for a trip on the Bay to the Island, or an hour's loafing in the parks, but when the longing took possession of him on lesson nights he fought it down with firmness, and he usually won. He confided in Epstein occasionally, and the wise old comedian let him talk as long as he wished about it, offering no suggestions or advice. He never went beyond, "Well done, boy," or "Stick to it," but to himself he often said, "He'll do; he'll do."
William neglected his lessons occasionally, as, for instance, once, in the first week of September, but it was in a good cause. He thus explained it to Lucien. "You shoulder seen the Turnpike bunch at the exhibition yesterday."
"So that's where you were. Mr. Whimple said he understood you were engaged on important private business matters."
"Well, he ain't far wrong the way I look at it."
"And were you——?"
"Yes," broke in William, "I was around when the lion broke outer the wild beast show—I'm coming to that soon. Pa took the whole bunch of us: he's been taking the whole family since I can remember, and we always have a good time.
"Well, of course it takes Ma about two hours to get the bunch ready—say, ain't kids the worst! I suppose she must have washed off Joey's and Bessie's face four times before we got started. After the second or third time, Pa takes 'em upstairs and makes 'em lie on the bed until the army is ready to advance. 'I've heard about machines for washin' dishes,' he says, 'but it takes a pair of hands and a lot of soap for washin' kiddies' faces, and hands is liable to get tired, so there you stays until Ma's had a chance to get cleaned up,' and they stayed.
"Well, we gets to the grounds about eleven o'clock, and all us kids had a lunch in a box, or a bag, or something, and Ma and Pa had two big baskets fuller grub besides. You'd thought there was enough to last a week. As soon as we gets inside, Pete says he's hungry, he's afraid he can't walk none unless he has something to eat right away. Pete always lays for the grub, you bet. So Pa he lets on he's considering something, but we all know what it is, because he's played it on us before, and he winds up by taking us down to a swell lunch place near the lake. Honest, it's as clean nearly as our house, and there's mighty few houses that's cleaner. So when Bill Thomson—the man what runs it—sees us coming, he looks mighty solemn, and we all knew what he's going to say, and he says it. 'Ah,' he says, 'there's the Turnpikes what's going to drink up me last drop of tea and all me gingerbeer. Well'—and then he heaves a great sigh—'let 'em come—let 'em all come: it'll ruin me, I know, but somebody always has-ter go under.'
"And Pa says to him to 'cheer up, and how's business?'
"So Bill says it's rotten! the worst in years. So far as he can see he ain't even going to pay expenses, and he wishes he'd let the thing alone. And Pa don't say anything then, but when we've eaten till we can't eat any more, specially Pete, Pa says to Ma, 'Bill Thomson's been runnin' that lunch counter for twenty years, to my knowledge, and he's never made anything on it, to hear him talk. But I notice he's got three nice houses all his own, and a fine trotting horse, and him an express man, too, and I'll bet he ain't got all the money for them houses outer the express business,' he says.
"'It's a good business, though,' says Ma.
"And Pa says, 'You bet it is, Ma, it's been good to us anyway.'
"Say, maybe my Pa don't know where to take folks at the exhibition. There's mighty little we didn't see, I'm tellin' you; and chirpin' all the while Pa was too. He's better than a minstrel show to go anywhere with, my Pa is; he'd make even you laugh, Lucien. Well, anyway, along about four o'clock Pa thinks we'd better see oner two of the shows in the midway, so's we can get another meal in good time to see the night doings in fronter the grand stand. So, us to the midway, and we ain't more than half in when we runs across the wild beast show. There's a cage on the platform in front of the show, with a pretty fierce lookin' lion in it, and the spieler he's telling the folks how this lion has eaten four or five people, and he ain't never been sub-dued. 'But,' he says, 'Seenor'r Dan-rell-o will go into his cage at every performance,' he says, 'at the peril of his life.'
"So, a young fellow what's listenin', he says kinder flip, 'Is the peril much?'
"So the showman says he ain't answerin' no fool questions, but if anybody what looks like they had brains is asking in-tell-i-gent questions, he's ready to answer 'em.
"So the young fellow—he's a husky lookin' chap—he says the show's a fake, and the man on the platform gives him a wipe over the head with a whip he had. Then you'd oughter have seen things happen. That young fellow's pal grabs the showman by the legs and pulls him down to the ground and proceeds to hammer him some. The crowd's kinder excited and shovin' around and saying things to each other without knowing what they're doing, when the young fellow what really starts the row lets out a yell you could hear a mile away, and the crowd hushes up kinder sudden; I guess everybody got cold chills down their backs all at once. While they're wondering what's coming next, the fellow puts out his hand and grabs the bars in front of the lion's cage, pulls two or three of them out, and gives that lion the awfullest punch right on the stomach; honest, Lucien, you could hear it like somebody pounding beefsteak to make it tender. Well, everybody comes to their senses, or else loses 'em again, whichever you like, all of a sudden, and the women that don't faint gets screechin', and the men are hollerin' for the police, and all except them as are laying in faints begins to run. We were pretty well up to the front, and when Pa sees the young fellow pull out the bars he turns kinder white. Then he grabs Dolly and Joey, and says to the rest of us, 'Vamoose ahead quick,' he says, 'though I don't think there's much danger,' and Ma don't say much, but she ain't trying to get far ahead of Pa and we keep turnin' around. At last Pa says, 'No more runnin',' he says, and he puts Dolly and Joey down, takes their hands, and begins to walk back towards the show just as a lot of cops came running up, and so we all go back, and there's that young fellow has the lion by the tail and he's whipping it to beat the band, and making it walk slow up the steps. So, by and by, when things get calmed down again, Pa finds out that them cage bars is wooden ones, and the lion's about forty years old, and honest, Lucien, all its teeth are false, and so's most of its claws, and just about all it can do is to roar and roll around enough to make it look fierce with red lights and all that around it when Seenor Dan-rell-o goes into the cage. Don't you believe the yarns the newspapers had about that fellow taking his life in his hands and all that. If the police hadn't stopped him he'd likely have taken the lion home and kept it for his kiddies to play with, if he's married.
"Well, Pa says they're ain't much sense paying to see the wild beast show after that, 'cause the best of it is on the outside. The next thing we run across was a show of trained horses. They had a trick mule outside to attract the crowds, and the spieler says the man, woman, or child what can stay on the mule's back one minute gets a dollar and a free ticket to the show. So we watched a few minutes and saw quite a few fellows try, and the mule threw every one before the minute was up. Pa he was kinder fidgetin' and snorting like he thought the triers was a poor bunch, and Ma she says kinder scared like, 'Let's go, Pa;' but Pa he steps forward, and he says low to the man will he let our bunch in if he stays on the mule's back a minute. The man he lets out a blast of a laugh, and he says, 'Ladies and gents,' he says, 'here's a man wants to take a children's home into the show free if he can stay on the mule a minute,' he says. 'Oh, gather round and see the fun—oh, gather round.' Pete, he's for rushing at the man, but I holds him back, for I see Pa's eyes, and I know that mule's going to be pretty miserable in a few seconds, and the man's going to be worse if he gets off any more of his chin about the family. Of course the mule stands as meek as a sheep while Pa gets on—them trick mules is trained to do that—and the crowd's waitin' for him to throw Pa up in the air, or roll him off, but the second Pa's on that mule's back his hands has a grip on his neck near the jaw, and, b'lieve me, Lucien, that mule began to turn white in the face. It seemed no time before the beast was kinder staggerin' around like a drunk man, and the spieler hollerin' for Pa to let go. 'You win,' he says, 'you win—get off—you can have everything you want. Dang it, man, you're killing that mule.'
"So Pa's pretty busy keeping his grip, but he says, 'I'm trying a new hold,' he says, 'and I'll try it on you next, unless you apol-o-gises.'
"So the man begs Pa's pardon, and ours, and Pa got off, and we all went into the show. It wasn't so bad at that either: any old day any wise guinea thinks he can put one over my Pa's he's stacking up some trouble for himself.
"Well, we had another meal then, and we ate so much that even Pete was nearly satisfied. He got through the rest of the night on three bags of peanuts, some pop-corn, and some grapes; but that's easy for Pete, he can eat until he begins to shed buttons off his clothes so fast you'd think it was raining. Then he'll go to school, or out to play, for an hour or so, and back he comes ready for more.
"We saw the grand stand show and the fireworks. Well, it's a pretty good grand stand show this year; but you've seen it, so what's the use spielin' about it? I'm glad I got off to go with the bunch, for I cert'nly had one swell time."
The day before the marriage of Flo Dearmore and Tommy Watson, the latter's assistants in his auctioneering rooms signed a formal and formidable looking agreement, framed by Whimple, and copied in duplicate by one William Adolphus Turnpike. It was William's first piece of typewriting for his boss, and he was mightily proud of it, for it was neatly done, so neatly done in fact that it did not need a single correction. And William's pride was the greater because he was asked to accompany Whimple to the store, there to witness the signing of the agreement. The ceremony was a solemn one—too solemn almost for William—whose efforts to maintain a dignified bearing were almost too much for Tommy. Whimple had no difficulty in maintaining the pose of a lawyer engaged in a serious case, while the assistants were too frightened to be anything else but soberly sheepish. The main clause of the agreement was read over twice, the assistants affirming in timid tones that they knew what it meant, and believed they had sense enough to live up to it. And it ran something like this:—
"And we the parties hereinbefore and hereinafter referred to as assistants to Thomas Watson, auctioneer of the said city of Toronto, County of York, do hereby solemnly agree and bind ourselves on our honour to respect such agreement; that we will not during the absence of the said Thomas Watson from his lawful place of business during the period of four weeks dating from the date of this agreement, to which in the presence of witnesses we have signed our names, discuss, argue, talk of, whisper, or shout in the presence of each other, or write or read in the presence of each other, anything relating in any manner to the Battle of Bannockburn or any other battle fought in or out of Scotland or England or elsewhere between armies or forces or individuals of either of the countries named. We also agree that we will not in the presence of each other, by actions or other show that might be so construed, attempt to convey each to the other any thoughts we may have as to such battle, or battles, or conflicts. And we further declare that we know and understand and comprehend the meaning of the foregoing in all respects, that we are over twenty-one years of age respectively, and are not subject to the control or permission of parents or guardians in entering into the agreement as set forth in the foregoing, and in the succeeding clauses of this agreement."
They signed both copies solemnly, William signed them too, as a witness, and so did Whimple. One copy was nailed to the wall at the back of the store, the other was given to Whimple, who was also given power of attorney by the auctioneer during the absence of Tommy on his honeymoon.
The first wedding that William Adolphus Turnpike ever attended as a guest was that of Tommy Watson and Flo Dearmore. The formal invitation was a startling surprise to the lad. It arrived at his home one morning just as he was about to depart for the office. He read it through three times, and then handed it over to his mother. "Ma," he cried, "look at that!" She read it through, and a blush of pleasure tinged her cheeks as she did so. "A church wedding, Willie, and you invited; and then there's a—a—a de-jun-er. I guess that means a spread at the house of the bride's mother."
"But me! Ma: why, I'd feel like a fish outer water among the bunch that'll be there, unless," he added thoughtfully, "'Chuck' Epstein goes too, and I can hang onto him."
The time between the reception of the invitation and the wedding was a trying one for William. He worried about what he should wear—and his choice was rather limited—but he worried more about what he should give, "For," said his mother, "you'll have to give the bride something: everybody does that when they're invited to a wedding." In the crisis of his dilemma over this proposition William consulted "Chuck" Epstein, and the result of their deliberations was the sending to the prospective bride of a parrot "that could talk to beat the band," as William said. Epstein never told him that he had himself paid the original owner of the parrot a larger amount than William could spare, and had arranged with him to accept the sum that the boy offered. And of all the gifts that Flo Dearmore received from others but the man of her choice, that parrot pleased her most, "For," said she, "he is the slangiest bird imaginable, and sometimes he uses swear words—just like my Tommy."
The wedding, which took place at "high noon" in an Anglican church, was a wonderful experience for William. With "Chuck" Epstein, he had a good seat near the altar, and many were the smiles and knowing nods exchanged between other invited guests at the evident eagerness of the lad to take in all the proceedings. And yet no other person, perhaps, in the assembly—and it was a large one—felt more than William the real solemnity of the ceremony. He was not very clear as to his exact feelings, but the dignity of the rector, the simple beauty of the marriage ritual, the singing of the choir, the love light in the eyes of the bride and of Tommy, combined to impress him profoundly. He smiled once, in fact he scarcely suppressed a snicker, but a warning touch of Epstein's hand aided him to control himself.
The "dejeuner" almost put him "on the blink," he declared afterwards. He was conscious only of two things: first, that the bride, amid all the sweet confusion and merriment incidental to the occasion, found time to introduce him to several ladies as "the dearest and cleverest boy I know, next to Tommy," and that when the toasts were proposed he had to make a speech. Epstein assisted him to stand, for the lad was overwhelmed with embarrassment that amounted to fear. He never knew just what he said at first, but when he recovered sufficiently to realise that the faces turned toward him were kindly, and the smiles were encouraging, his self-possession returned. Observant always, and quick to see the right thing to do, William hoped that "Mister Watson and his wife would live happy ever after, and," he concluded, with a smile that was full of confidence, "I nearly snickered once when the marriage was on. That was when the minister says something about, 'Do you, Thomas Watson, take this woman for your wife?' or words something like that, and I says to myself, 'Does he! Gee! And him looney about——'" The rest was lost in a breeze of laughter and joyous acclamations.
Afterwards there was more hustle and bustle, and finally the bride and groom started for the railway station, with all the accompaniments considered so necessary to start newly wedded couples on such journeys. Others may have noticed, William certainly did, that though she smiled, there were tears in Mrs. Dearmore's eyes as she stood at the doorstep and waved her hands in farewell. And, as he left for the office, William was thinking of that. "It means a lot for her," he said to himself—"a lot. She—why—Flo will be—" he paused—"of course, of course, it's always the way. It'll never be the same again for Mrs. Dearmore, or Flo, or Tommy. This is a rummy world."
Later in the day he dropped into Tommy Watson's store and found the assistants engaged in the hottest kind of argument. They took no notice of him at all; indeed, they did not know he was there. He listened for a few minutes, wrathful and unhappy, because he felt that this was the time above all others when Tommy's business should be attended to with diligence and enthusiasm, and then, still unnoticed, he stole out of the store and ran back to the office. Whimple was not in, and William, hastily glancing over his employer's daily reminder, made a bee line for the county court. Here he found Whimple, having just successfully emerged from a case in which he had defended a man accused of theft, chatting with the county crown attorney.
"Excuse me, Mister Whimple," said William, abruptly, "but them guys are at it again."
"Meaning——?" began Whimple.
"In Tommy Watson's store," William went on hurriedly, "and, honest, it's fierce. I was in and outer the store, and neither of 'em even looked at me."
Whimple bade adieu to the crown attorney, and started away with William.
"What are they fighting about now, William?" said Whimple, disgustedly, as he hurried along the street with William by his side.
"Home r'rule fer I'r'r'reland or 'ome rule for Hireland! I don't know just which," answered William with a smile.