Some chronicles are so burdened with matters that are irrelevant as to cause to those who have an eye for the main story and nothing else much trouble and more annoyance. But in this, the true chronicle of events in one period of the life of William Adolphus Turnpike, only that which is of importance has been dealt with. This is almost a superfluous explanation, for the reader who has managed to keep awake thus far has long ago become seized of the fact. There lapses between what has gone before and what is here written a period of nearly five years. Happy years they had been to William and the Turnpike "bunch." The elder Turnpike's business prospered exceedingly, and William was well advanced towards his cherished goal. Whimple and Tommy had long ceased to worry over him, for the lad was developing into a sturdy and healthy youth, taller than the average, still on the slim side, but strong and sinewy. There was little grace about his movements, though he had developed in courtesy and consideration to a surprising degree. He sometimes worried over his lack of graceful movements. "I've stood in front of the glass many a time," he said to Epstein, "and practised trying to be graceful, but it's no go. I'm as awkward as a duck; what'll I do?"
"Nothing," said Epstein, gravely, "nothing, my boy. It will be best for you if you are always naturally as awkward as you are to-day. Many comedians have tried for years to acquire what you have as a gift of nature. It's a great asset." And William took the old man's word for it. "You know best," he said emphatically, "and whatever you say goes."
Epstein smiled happily. The old comedian did not seem to have aged very much in the five years. He declared he felt younger, in fact. Between him and William there had grown a friendship strong and complete. The lad trusted implicitly in the man: his gratitude to him was unbounded, he evinced it by his attention to the lessons, still continued, by every little thing he could do to show that the tuition, so unselfishly given, was bearing good fruit. It was hard drilling often: there were days and weeks when the heart of William was torn with doubts and fears, but always when it seemed that he could not bear the strain, he tackled his tasks once more with the determination his friends had so often noted, and the difficulties would fly, the rocky path become smooth, and the heart of William would rejoice in another victory.
Whimple's business had attained quite respectable proportions now. He was able to pay William a fairly good salary, and the lad was earning it, for he had adopted as his motto one of Tommy Watson's proverbs: "The man who earns what he gets is a dub; the fellow who always does more than he's paid for gets to the winning post first." Whimple himself, on the shrewd advice of his aunt, had bought and re-sold to excellent advantage pieces of property in the rapidly developing suburbs, and was beginning to be known as an expert on law in regard to property. He had also, on the advice of his heart, and without consulting any one but the lady herself, married Mrs. Stewart, and William was almost as proud of his "boss" for doing that as he was of his own ability to keep the books and do all the clerical work of the office.
There was a new Watson too—you have guessed that, of course. A one-year-old image of Tommy, who would have had half the doctors and all the trained nurses in town at the newcomer's advent, if his friends had not restrained him.
And Tommy, who, at the time of his marriage, had considered himself fairly well able to meet all current demands on his purse, and even to retire and live in reasonable comfort on what he had managed to put away, got cold feet as soon as he realised that he was a father. The first cry from Tommy junior brought the cold sweat to the brow of the auctioneer, who was sitting in his home "den" awaiting news from his wife's room. He stole softly downstairs and made his way to the verandah, in the belief that some of the neighbour's children were playing there, and bent upon driving them away. But there were no youngsters on the verandah, and Tommy, with a sudden realisation of the meaning of that cry, went back to the den, grinning foolishly, and hungrier than ever for news. When the doctor finally came to him with a hearty, "Well, Dad, there's a bouncing Tommy junior to look after now," Tommy asked first, "How is she?"
"Fine," answered the doctor.
"And the kiddo's a boy?"
"Yes," said the doctor, "and he's a dandy; you can see 'em both soon," he added, as he left the room.
"Me a father!" said Tommy to himself. "Me! Oh, joy—and a boy!" He seized the cushions on the lounge and threw them up to the ceiling joyously. "If I was at the store," he said aloud, and addressing the cushions, "I'd use you to smash something with."
Then he took a writing pad and began to cover it with figures, and the more he figured, the less pleased he seemed to be with the results. Finally, "Ahem," said Tommy, "I've got to work now: this'll never do; can't let the wife and kiddy want for anything. Wonder what we'll have to get for him first?" And after more figuring, "Well, it's no good getting cold feet over the proposition: it's me with me nose to the grindstone, and I guess I can stand it for some years yet."
There was joy in his store when he arrived there the next morning, proudly happy. Epstein and Whimple were there, and they greeted him with dignified pleasure. The Scottish and English assistants, who were still at loggerheads over the battle of Bannockburn, were no less sincere in their congratulations. When Jimmy Duggan, M.P.P., called to add the compliments of the People's Party, Tommy was fairly beaming. Oh, but it was good to have such friends. But the congratulations that touched him most of all were those of William and Lucien, who called together. The youths were embarrassed, they hardly knew what to say, and what they did say was incoherent. But Tommy knew the kindliness of the hearts that had prompted the call, and he blew his nose and shuffled his feet uneasily as the boys, after an awkward silence, departed.
Lucien and William were fast friends now. The former was still with Simmons, the architect, who, like Whimple, was beginning to achieve success, and now occupied a separate office suite. He was growing fast; was stouter than William, much slower in action and speech, and was giving promise of developing into a successful business man. William had confided his plans to Lucien long ago, and had been delighted with the real interest with which they had been received. They often talked about them, and Lucien had even given some suggestions that William had acted upon and found to be good. And one day Lucien had completed his conquest of the coming comedian by a simple remark. William, in a more than usual friendly outburst of confidence, had built castles in the air, based on his conviction of attaining success.
"And if," said Lucien, "you should become a famous and wealthy actor, and have a theatre of your own—I—I——" he looked at William wistfully.
"Yes, Lucien."
"Wouldn't it be nice if—if—I was architect enough to design it for you? I—I would like——"
"Oh, Lucien!" That was all William said, but Lucien laughed happily.
Jimmy Duggan, too, had been doing things during the years. In the early days of his first session of the legislature Jimmy was regarded as something of a joke by government and opposition sides alike, and by the press of both parties. He was constantly referred to in the newspapers as "Mr. Duggan, the People's Party," and when it came to recording votes on various questions there was sure to be a note to the effect that "The People's Party voted solidly" for or against the proposal, or Bill, or amendment, as the case might be. And Jimmy rather liked it. In the course of time he became thoroughly acquainted with "all the boys" in the press gallery. The embarrassment of his detachment from either of the straight political parties was a strong factor in ripening his friendship with the "gallery," and very soon the reporters began to welcome his advent to the writing room, a well-like structure between the actual press gallery and one of the galleries used by the public. For Jimmy had an amazing fund of stories, and knew how to tell them, and he also knew that there were times when silence was imperative, and on such occasions he smoked his pipe and marvelled while the reporters turned out reams of copy for their newspapers.
To the leaders of the respective parties Jimmy was a real puzzle. They made overtures to him, by proxy, of course. Far be it from any leader of any political party to ever care one red cent whether an independent, real or imitation, would consider throwing in his lot with a party. Far be it, but—well, the overtures were made, and Jimmy received the envoys who bore them on separate occasions with cordiality. One envoy reported that Jimmy would support his party through thick and thin, and the other reported, "We have him, hide and boot and all." He was no chicken—Jimmy.
There was some curiosity as to when Jimmy would make his first speech in the House, and on what subject. The press gallery, to a man, was willing to bet that it would be interesting, and not one-hundredth part so long as the first speech made by "The Big Wind." Attempts to pump Jimmy were of no avail, for he declared with emphatic words and gestures that he didn't know. "All I'm sure of," he said, "is that I'll make one some day, if I don't drop dead of heart disease when I get up to speak. I hope it'll be some nice quiet afternoon; there's too many folks here at nights to suit me."
"Well, but you addressed far larger audiences during your campaign," said one of the reporters.
"Yes," answered Jimmy, "but it was a different crowd; most of the bunch that comes to the galleries here at nights are pretty keen politicians. Lots of 'em have been coming for years. They know all the points of order, and everything like that, and because I'd know that they knew I was tearing holes in the rules of the House, and the English language, I'd likely feel that I'd better not take a fling. But, what's the use of talking?—I don't know what I'll say or do. Did any of you fellows know Father LeRoy, down our way, who died a little while ago?"
Some of them had known him.
"Well, fifteen years or so ago, there was a gang of housebreakers and burglars that got on people's nerves. They pulled off many a robbery, beat up a number of people, and had the whole district terrorised. The police didn't seem able to get on to any good clues, though goodness knows they worked hard. Well, it got so that people were afraid to leave anything worth while in their houses when they went to church services. So they stayed at home more frequently than usual. Father LeRoy felt pretty bad about his own people who did this, and prayed for an end to 'the plague,' as he called it. He was sorrowful, too, about the robberies, because he had a sneaking suspicion that some of his own parishioners were mixed up in them, and he was right.
"He wasn't much of a man for size, the Father, and was never known to have displayed any great strength, but he had a bright, keen eye, a firm step, and a hearty hand-shake that showed he was healthful, anyway.
"After mass one Sunday, I shook hands with him at the door—he was always there for a word before we went—and I says to him, 'Father, you'll be having the gang breaking into your house first thing you know.'
"He laughed kind of easy, and says, 'Well, if they come, I hope they'll be peaceable, for, above all things, I am a man of peace.'
"'And if they're not?' I says.
"And he shrugged his shoulders—that was the French of him from his father—and says, 'I don't know what I'd do, but I'd do the best I could.'
"Sure enough, they did break into the Father's house the next night, three of them, and they got into his room on the second floor, and woke him up from his sleep, because they couldn't find anything worth stealing. They stood beside his bed, three hulking brutes they were, and threatened him with fearful things if he didn't at once get up and show them the gold and silver plate they believed was in the house. So he got up kinder quietly, and put some of his clothes on, and all the while they were saying very soft-like awful things about the church, and Father LeRoy wasn't saying anything, but all of a sudden he turns the key easily in the door, locking it on the inside, you see, and slips the key in his pocket. Then he looks at them, and they're very close to him and very fierce, and one of 'em says, 'We smashed old Tom's head'—that was the Father's servant—'just because he opened his mouth to yell, and now we'll pound yours to a pulp,' and the next minute that fellow went down with a broken jawbone and a stomach that never got well again, I guess. The others threw themselves upon the Father, and a few minutes afterwards the whole neighbourhood was awakened by the yells and shoutings from the house. People and police were soon there: they broke into the house and burst into the Father's room, and there he was, a little pale and breathing heavy, and the three men piled on the floor in a heap, moaning and groaning, and all covered with blood. I was one of them that rushed in with the police, and when things got quietened down a bit I found old Tom in the kitchen with a pretty sore head, but not in danger. Well, one of the police inspectors and me stayed the rest of the night with the Father, though he didn't want us to.
"The inspector shook the Father's hand about a million times, and he says to him, 'Sir,' he says, 'what did you think when you locked that door?'
"And Father LeRoy said very slow, 'I thought to myself, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll do the best I can.'
"'You can take it from me,' says the inspector, 'and I'm an Ulster Orangeman at that, there isn't a man on the force to-day could have done better,' and he shook the Father's hand again.
"Maybe," concluded Jimmy, "nobody'll ever want to shake my hand after my first speech, and give me praise, but I'll do the best I can, anyway."
The Honorable the Provincial Secretary gave Jimmy his first chance in the annual statement on the hospitals, charities, and prisons of the province. The Secretary dilated at some length on the reasonable prices at which supplies had been obtained, particularly coal and wood. The opposition attacked the Secretary's statement on general grounds. They always did that, anyway: obviously, anything that the government did must be wrong, and the debate that followed dragged along for two or three days, until even the most incompetent men in the House had said something about it, and had kicked because their speeches did not get more space in the newspapers. The House was tired to death of the discussion, and there was a joyous trooping in of members when the whips sent word that a vote was in sight on an opposition resolution that the salary list of the Provincial Secretary's Department should be cut in half. But the end was not yet. Just as the Speaker began to put the question Jimmy rose. A half-suppressed groan rose with him, for the members were really tired. Jimmy heard it, but he only smiled.
"On behalf of the People's Party," he said, "I would like to ask the Honorable the Provincial Secretary a question or two before the vote is taken, and I presume he'll answer them."
"Cheerfully," said the Honorable, who was smiling.
"I would like to ask then, Mr. Speaker," said Jimmy, "if the honorable gentleman knows anything about coal, or the coal business."
"I do not."
"He is advised by his officials, I presume?"
"I am"—no one was paying any attention to the Speaker now—the questions and answers were being exchanged straight across the floor of the House.
"The honorable gentleman stated," went on Jimmy, "that at last the Toronto coal ring had been checkmated, and he had made a thoroughly good bargain with Howilton dealers."
"Yes."
"Does he happen to know that the Howilton men turned over their contract to the Toronto ring?"
There was a pause. The Provincial Secretary looked his surprise, but sat still.
"Because that is the case," proceeded Jimmy, calmly. "In fact, the Howilton companies that got the contract are owned by the Toronto ring, anyway."
The Provincial Secretary rose hastily, and as hastily expressed the opinion that the honorable member for Mid-Toronto was mistaken. "It is a grave charge he makes," he said, "and I do not think it has any real foundation."
Jimmy ignored for a moment the challenge as to his veracity. "The Howilton companies," he said, "are owned by the Toronto ring. But if the Provincial Secretary had known it, he could have been independent of the ring." He paused, but the Provincial Secretary was sitting gloomily silent. "There are at least three new coal firms in this city," said Jimmy, "that are out of the ring, and they could have filled the orders at still smaller prices than the government paid. But the government chose to send out circulars on its old lists, on which the names of the new companies do not appear, instead of advertising for tenders, and giving all a chance, and the government has been stung—that's all."
The opposition members were pounding their desks as Jimmy sat down. The government side was silent. The Provincial Secretary rose and declared in solemn tones that he would ask "to-morrow" that a committee of the House be named to investigate the whole matter, and he hoped the honorable gentleman would bring all the facts in his possession before it.
"I will," said Jimmy, laconically, and he did, with the result that the government got a rare black eye that set it rolling down the Hill of Overthrow, at the bottom of which, a few years later, it landed, and landed hard.
"I did my best, anyway," said Jimmy, when, the House having risen, the reporters gathered around him to compliment him on his maiden speech.
Sally Miller was able to walk a little now—a very little—but firmly, and without the effort and the pain that the journey around the table had cost her in the old days. She was living with Miss Whimple, who had insisted on it from the day the doctors had declared the girl fit to be removed from the hospital. There was no certainty of an absolute cure: the doctors could not promise that, but, with every month, the hope of ultimate recovery strengthened. She had been a long time in the hospital, nearly two years, before the signs of improvement were marked enough to admit of encouragement. She was a good patient, Sally: her cheerfulness and animation, her belief and trust in the doctors and the nurses won their hearts. There were many black hours for her; home-sickness, pain, doubt, these were hard things to bear. In the still of the night she often lay sleepless, fighting with the sorrow and longing that oppresses, and striving to repress the exclamations that pain brought to her lips. And she won. "She always was a winner," William used to say, "and always will be."
There were no lack of visitors to Sally during her stay in the hospital. Her own relations made frequent trips to the city to see her. Miss Whimple was her most constant caller, and the next was—not William. He did manage to call often, but not so often as Lucien, and, somehow, Sally began to look forward to Lucien's visits with delightful thrills of anticipation. Miss Whimple smiled about it, and William laughed. Sally smiled, too, but, such a smile! She enjoyed William's visits immensely. He was seldom serious with her, and he always had funny stories to tell. In fact, he clothed the most commonplace incidents of the day with humour when he spoke of them, and shamelessly invented stories when he had no actual foundations on which to build them. And Sally always knew when he was spinning yarns, and William knew that she did. Miss Whimple was rather disappointed over William's attitude toward the girl, and so expressed herself to Epstein one day. The old comedian displayed unwonted heat in his answer. "Such foolishness," he said sharply, "give the lad a chance. There is a great career before William. If he begins thinking of love, or thinks he is thinking seriously of love now, it will be the end for him. I hope you have not been trying to put any such nonsensical ideas into his head."
Miss Whimple did not answer. The gruffness of the old man hurt a little. He was quick to understand her silence, and after a while said gently, "I beg your pardon: I did not mean to be angry, I—I—the boy and his future are very dear to me—you—I——"
She laid a hand on his arm. "I know—I know," she said. "I'm a foolish old maid. You are right about William, but, sometimes, those who have lost much dream pleasant dreams and build fairy castles for those who help to make their sorrow easier to bear." And then they talked of other things, of William's future, of Epstein's success, of Tommy Watson's boy.
Meanwhile, Sally was sitting on the verandah of Miss Whimple's home, going over again to herself all the memories of her first meeting with Lucien. She had been three months in the hospital when William had brought him to her, and was sitting up in bed dressing dolls for a Christmas-tree for the infant patients in the institution. William came to the bedside with his usual easy air. Lucien hung back a little, shy, embarrassed, and blushing. William took hold of his sleeve and dragged him forward. "Allow me, Miss Sally Miller," he said, with a smile, "to introduce to you Lucien Torrance—Lucien Wellington Torrance, to give him his full name. Mister Torrance—Miss Miller."
They shook hands gravely, and eyed each other in silence.
"This," went on William, in a more serious tone, "this, Sally, is the chap I used to think was a mutt—honest—until I woke up one day and found that I was it. I was the M-U-T-T," he spelled out the word, "and Lucien had me beaten a mile for brains and bravery."
Lucien was blushing furiously now. "Don't," he pleaded.
William ignored the remark, and smiling, again proceeded, "Honest, Sally, he's a pippin, is Lucien. Why, first thing we know he'll be the boss architect of Canada, and the real thing in inventions too. He's always trying his hand at something; and he'll come out ahead, will Lucien."
Sally murmured a hope that he would.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid to speak up, Sally," said William, gaily. "You can't phase Lucien. He'll listen to you until the cows come home—he's a good listener, and," he laid one arm affectionately on Lucien's shoulder, "he's a good doer, too, is my friend Lucien."
Lucien came frequently after that, and often alone. He never had much to say, and yet Sally felt after his visits as though he had said a great deal. He thought much of her, and the first practical outcome of his thinking was the invention of an ingenious little table that could be mounted on the bed, and moved easily by the patient, so that she could use it as a book support, or a table on which to lay the trifles she made for the little children. William saw it the first day Sally used it, questioned her closely, took the table back to Lucien, and gave him no rest until there had been a consultation with Whimple and the first steps had been taken toward patenting the invention. It is in use by every hospital almost in the world now, but few recall that a boy then barely seventeen years of age invented it.
And as Sally thought of the past, she saw Lucien coming steadily up the pathway toward her. He greeted her with a quiet, "How are you?" and sat beside her on the verandah. It was almost dark, but warm, and a gentle breeze tempered the atmosphere that throughout the day had been oppressive. From the verandah the central portion of the city to the Bay was stretched out in long regular streets, marked by the glimmering of electric lights. Beyond the wharves the lights of the Island, sentinel like, marked the indented shore facing the city, and beyond that again there flickered faintly from Lake Ontario the lights of a few steamers, some of them pleasure craft, others bearing burdens of freight from, or toward, the sea-ports.
In silence they watched for a long time. It was Lucien who spoke first. "Toronto is growing fast," he said, "it will soon be all built up around here: and it is a fine city—I—I love it—I love it. Some day—I'm foolish, though——"
"Some day," she echoed.
"Some day—I—I—hope I may do something to help to make it a greater city still. Work for one's self isn't everything. Father often talks to me of 'the public good.' 'Every man,' he says, 'should take an intelligent interest in the affairs of his own municipality, and any man who can serve his city in even a humble capacity should be proud to do it.'"
"And you will, Lucien—I know you will." He took one of her hands and held it in his own, and again they sat silent.
"I must go," he said, at last. "Good-night, Sally."
"Good-night," she said, gently.
He rose, and, looking down at her, he said abruptly, "William's going soon; did you know?"
"Mr. Epstein said he thought it would be soon."
"He told me to-day that Mr. Epstein had found a place for him in a good company that will go on the road this fall, after a two weeks' engagement here. He has only a small part, of course, but he regards it as his chance, and he's quite delighted. Next summer he'll come back to give all his time to study again. Good-night."
"Good-night, Lucien."
He turned after he reached the pathway, and called, "It'll be slow without William, won't it?"
"Yes," she answered, and to herself, "but it would be slower without you, Lucien."
On his way to the street car he passed Miss Whimple and Epstein and exchanged greetings with them. When they resumed their walk toward Miss Whimple's house, the old comedian asked her, "Did you notice what he was whistling as he came along?"
"Not particularly."
"Listen: there he is again." And faint, but clear and sweet, she heard it.
"'Sally in our Alley,'" she said, laughingly.
"Yes," answered Epstein with a chuckle.
"The dear lad," said Miss Whimple, "he's a fine fellow. And the dear girl, the dear girl, God help her to a perfect cure."
William was William, the fun lover, still; you must not think otherwise. True, he regarded his work more seriously than in the days when he first engaged himself as office boy to Whimple, and his persistency, determination, and devotion to his studies under the tuition of Epstein were beginning, as hereinbefore chronicled, to bear fruit. But William was William still: you read that before; it is necessary, perhaps, to emphasise it. An irrepressible love of fun, and a cheerful temper, continued to be his great assets; he radiated sunshine as of yore. But back of all was a tender heart; a heart that was rich in sympathy, and was ever responsive to appeals for help or comfort. To his mother he continued to be a sort of puzzle; she never really understood him, in fact, and his successes always came as a surprise to her. Pete, curly-headed and sturdy, with his fondness for fighting, his love of schoolboy sports, and his healthy appetite, she could understand. But William; she used to look at him sometimes when he was "cheering up the bunch," and wonder if she would ever just know how much of it was earnest and just what was put on.
This attitude of his mother's troubled William more than anything else at this period. His love for her was unalloyed by any feeling toward any other woman or girl of his acquaintance; he often called her his "sweetheart." He was more gentle toward her than any other member of the household, with the exception of little deaf and dumb Dorothy, and he continually sought her advice in matters of family interest. Yet he knew that she brooded over him often; and because he knew the reason of it, so keen was his intuition, he tried to reveal the real William to her more completely than to any one else.
Miss Whimple came nearer to "diagnosing" William than any of the women who knew him at this time.
"I've seen that boy," she said to Sally, "give his last cent to help people in distress: I've known him to go to trouble that would worry a grown man in order to assist some shiftless body to get a position, for his trust in people is not easily shaken. But we'll never know the real William until—until——"
Sally waited, and in a little while Miss Whimple went on. "Just now, and for a long time to come, I think, his mind will be so strongly set upon success on the stage that he will not allow anything to come between. And, if his health remains good, it seems to me that our fondest hopes for him in that direction will fall far short of the realisation. But one day, Sally Miller, there will come to William that which comes to every one of us sooner or later."
"Yes."
"Yes," said Miss Whimple, so low that the girl hardly caught the words, "yes—love will come to William. It will have to fight its way over many barriers, but in the end his heart will be carried by storm. Then we will know a new William Adolphus Turnpike, or some of you younger folks will, for I'm too old to be expecting that the good Lord will let me live to see that, and William in love will be worth seeing. You know," she continued in a lighter tone, "I asked him one day just a little while ago if he had a sweetheart, and he looked at me with that gleam in his eyes we all know so well as he answered, 'Sure!'
"'Who is it?' I asked.
"'You'd know as much as I do if I told you,' he said.
"That made me angry, of course, and I told him he was lucky enough to be too big for me to thrash, as I tried to do the first time I saw him; and you should have seen him grin.
"'Miss Whimple,' said he, 'I'll never forget you and the parasol as long as I live. Say, it was——' but I broke in with, 'Now, who is your sweetheart, William?' and what do you think he said?"
"'Mother.'"
"Exactly! And I knew he was serious about it, too, though, like a foolish old woman, I must needs go on to tell him that a boy of his age ought to have a real sweetheart. Well, presently he became very quiet, his mouth set firmly, as it does when he is thinking hard, and he looked straight at me. 'Miss Whimple, you know what real love is,' he said. 'I hope when it comes to me I'll be as worthy of it and as true as you have been,' and then—why, he was the real William again in a flash. 'Say,' he said, 'why don't you go out to a ball game once in a while? Lots of ladies go, and the way the Torontos are playing this season it looks like they'd be champions again for the second time in four years. Honest, they've got me wild, and Tommy Watson's crazier than I am. He can't go to the games as often as he used to, because he's looney about his wife and little Tommy too. So, when I go and he doesn't I have to tell the whole story of the game to him, and—say, excuse me, I'll just have time to get to the grounds to see the last four innings,' and away he went.
"Once I asked Whimple if William had a girl, and he told me the boy was too busy. That's the kind of a fool answer a man makes when he either doesn't know, or does know and won't tell. Then he told me about a trick that Tommy Watson and himself played on William, only it didn't work out in the way they expected. It puzzles me to know how men find time to go into such silliness. Between them they wrote a letter, in a disguised hand, of course, and supposedly from a girl to William. He had been taking part in one of the amateur performances that Epstein arranged for the Children's Hospital, and the letter declared that the writer had been so touched by the wonderful ability displayed by William that she felt she might be forgiven if she did so unmaidenly a thing as to ask for a personal interview. William got the letter—the over-grown boys saw to that—read it through carefully, stowed it away in one of his pockets, and—well, as Tommy Watson says, he just sat tight.
"A few days afterwards they wrote another, to which William was to send a reply to a certain post-office box. But there was no sign of an answer. A third letter was written, imploring the recipient to have mercy, or words to that effect, and two days afterwards a detective called on Whimple and Tommy Watson. He found them together in Tommy's store and opened the conversation with the hope that they were not writing any more love letters. They were dumbfounded. Before they could even think of an explanation the detective warned them in his most official manner that the gentleman whom they were annoying by their devotion to the art of letter-writing had decided that on receipt of further epistles he would institute proceedings, and start with a full statement to the press on the matter, including the names of the letter writers.
"They had sense enough to take the hint, anyway, and enough sense left over to keep from talking to William about it. I asked Whimple if William had ever referred to the subject, and he said not directly. But one afternoon he found one of the letters lying on his desk. He took it to Tommy Watson, who told him he had found one on his desk too."
"I wonder what Tommy said about it?" said Sally.
"Oh! he had one of his made-to-order proverbs on hand, to be sure. He said, 'Well, you know what our old friend Shakespeare said, "It's a wise old one that gets ahead of a bright young one."'"
"He's really clever, is William," commented Sally.
"Yes, and like all clever people he is sometimes taken in. But I'll say this much for him, he isn't easily gold-bricked, and he learns the lessons of experience thoroughly. He's like his 'Pa' in that respect, and he's as loyal to his 'Pa' as ever. In all the time I have known him he's looked upon his 'Pa' as the smartest man he knows."
"Yes," said Sally, smiling. "Whenever he wants to impress one as to the cleverness of some other person he brings in 'Pa,' and he always adds, 'It's a wise guinea who can put one over on my Pa.'"
"It is, too," said Miss Whimple. 'Pa' Turnpike is one of the shrewdest men I ever met, and one of the kindliest too. William and 'the bunch'—can't you imagine you hear him saying it, Sally?—'the bunch' are proud of 'Pa,' and they have a right to be."
What should be left out of a chronicle dealing with the actual events and sayings of real people? This chronicler does not know, and, as a consequence, omissions from the true and unvarnished record of the people hereinbefore dealt with are the consequences of guesses rather than of deliberate and judicious or injudicious selections. Readers may argue that out for themselves. Nothing has been said, for instance, of the triumph of Pete Turnpike over the mules owned by his father, and the day he rode them, circus fashion, with a foot on each mule, down one of the principal streets; the charge of "obstructing" that followed; the hearing of the same in the police court, and Pete's dismissal with a warning on account of his tender years, which latter, however, did not save him from chastisement by Turnpike pater. Nor has anything been said of Pete's conversion during a revival meeting; his exhortations to the family to follow his course, until he almost drove them insane, and his fall from grace when a new boy at the school declared he could lick Pete with one hand tied behind his back. He loudly, and willingly, changed his opinion after Pete got through with him; nay, he admitted that if Pete had been hobbled and blind of one eye he would not have stood a chance against him. But, somewhere, there should be found room to tell of William's encounter and subsequent relations with a judge of the Common Pleas Division of the High Court of Justice, because, in after years—well, never mind that part of it.
In the course of his work William was frequently in the law courts, and one sultry September afternoon, this was in the first year of his engagement with Whimple, he got into an argument with the office boy of another lawyer on the merits of the Toronto baseball team. William bore himself tolerably well, until he was told that he knew as much about baseball as a hog's foot, and was, without doubt, the sassiest "four-flusher" in the city of Toronto. "I may be a four-flusher," said William, calmly, "but I ain't allowing any pie-face loafer your size to say it," and he smacked the boy's cheek. A hot encounter followed, the contestants being so determined to rub each other's head through the stone flooring of the corridor that they did not notice his lordship, the judge, with the officials of the court around him, come from the court room. They noticed nothing, in fact, until a deputy sheriff fell over them as they rolled on the floor. The deputy sheriff rose hastily, and angrily, and drew one foot back to plant a kick on the first part of boyish anatomy that he could reach, when the judge, robes and all, stooped down, grasped each boy by the neck, and placed him on his feet. Still retaining his hold, he looked at the boys somewhat sternly—if the mouth was an index of his thoughts, but if his eyes—anyway, William saw his eyes first, and smiled.
The judge was a surprisingly young man for a judge. In his day he had been a champion boxer and football player. It was whispered, indeed, that no boxing bout of importance since his appointment had been without his presence as a spectator. He regarded William gravely. "He smiles," he said solemnly, "smiles in the presence of the august court whose serenity he has seen fit to disturb." The other boy was blubbering, and to him the judge said, "This coming man realises the enormity of his crime. He weeps the bitter tears of one discovered. He repents his misdeeds. Officer," to the deputy sheriff, "take the names of these disturbers of the peace. Upon their fitting punishment I will ponder." He relaxed his hold and passed on.
A day or two later he ran across William in the corridor. This time his lordship was without the robes, and in street attire looked younger than ever. His smile of recognition brought an answering smile from William. The lad would have passed on, but the judge stopped him. "Still at liberty, I see," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Um—see that you remain worthy of it: it's a precious thing, liberty." Then, "And now, in my unofficial capacity, would you mind telling me the cause of the desperate encounter of the other day?"
The twinkle in the judge's eyes reassured William. "Well, sir," he said, "that fellow said the Torontos was selling games. He said they had it all fixed about who was to win the pennant before the season started."
The judge, himself a baseball fan, looked up and down the corridor, and thus addressed William. "Did—er—that is to say—did you——" he paused.
William, one palm outspread, the other falling on it in rhythm to the words, his eyes sparkling, asserted—"Honest, judge, I walloped him for fair. When we got outside he starts all over again, so I herds him into a lane and we had it out. Gee!" reflectively, "he was tough, but I did him up all right."
His lordship waved a hand deprecatingly. "Enough, enough, boy," he said, solemnly. Then, in a lighter tone, "Didn't I see you at the game a week ago Saturday?"
"You did, you did, sir, I sat right behind you, and—and——"
"Go on."
"I guess I slapped your back when you got kinder excited in the——"
"Seventh innings, with the score three to nothing for Montreal, Torontos with two men on bases and nobody out"—the judge was talking rapidly now—"big Bill Hannigan at the bat, and——"
"What did Hannigan do to the ball," William broke in, "but slam it over the fence for a home run, bringing in the two on bases and tying the score! Oh, joy!" A clerk of the court who came out of his office at this moment snickered audibly at the sight of a boy doing a little war dance in the corridor and a judge smiling approvingly.
Throughout the years that followed, the judge and William maintained a friendly relationship. His lordship was eventually admitted into the secret of William's ambition, though it was not until their acquaintanceship had lasted three years that he took it seriously, and then he never failed to urge William to "stick to it." From Whimple, and later from "Chuck" Epstein, he obtained further light, and, on the comedian's invitation, attended two or three of the amateur entertainments in which William had a part.
Epstein was chary in consenting to William appearing in the cast of such entertainments, and William could not be persuaded to do anything in this regard unless Epstein favoured it. Afterwards, they would go over the performance together, Epstein in the rôle of critic, and the old man's suggestions and advice and William's own observations and descriptions of his emotions, and his reasons for this or that slight departure from the lines and action originally mapped out, aided in the making of the William Adolphus Turnpike so beloved of the theatre-goers to-day.
The judge enjoyed those performances, and he rather surprised Epstein and William both by making suggestions in respect to some of them that were valuable and illuminating. "How did you come to think of that?" asked Epstein curiously, in regard to one idea advanced by the judge.
"I think," answered his lordship, slowly, "that a court is the best of dramatic schools. It is so real, too; there is much of tragedy and a great deal of comedy too—unconscious, a lot of it. I have always been rather keenly interested in the study of the people who came before me, particularly in criminal cases. It seems to me that there is still a wide field for a play."
There was a long pause. Epstein, who was looking keenly at the judge, broke in. "There is," he said, "there is—and you could write it, your lordship."
The judge started. "Do you think so?" he asked, somewhat sharply.
Epstein nodded. And now, of course, the reader of this chronicle has guessed the identity of the author of the play in which William made his first appearance as a "Star." Yes—a judge—hiding under anom-de-plume, a judge of the High Court, no less, wroteOur High Court, that most delightful of the comedies of our own times. There followed, a few days afterwards, a long talk between William and the judge, in the latter's room in the court house. William had called at the court house on business, and the judge, who had espied him in the corridor, had called him in. For a time their conversation was of the stage and William's prospective future thereon, and then, very quietly, the judge began to talk about William himself. Presently William began to lean toward the talker, intent, earnest; no one had spoken to him before just like this. His father had tried once or twice, but his evident embarrassment, his halting sentences, and his fear lest William should misunderstand, had frightened, rather than impressed, the boy. But the judge was saying the things William knew his father had tried to say, and he was losing none of them. The sacredness of the body, his lordship was emphasising this, and dilating upon it: the purity of the heart and mind; respect of woman; the honour of a man; reverence to God. William afterwards wrote the words out almost as fully as though he had taken them all down at the time. Nothing had so moved him as this talk. When he stood at the door to go, the judge placed one hand on his shoulder, and said simply, "My boy, it has cost me something to say these things. I am a husband and a father. God knows how much he has to forgive in me—God—knows. Those I love best—my wife—my little girl—they could never dream. But—will you try to remember, sometimes, some of these things?"
William put out his hand and the judge shook it warmly. The boy was late getting back to the office, and Whimple was testy. "Where on earth have you been, William?" he asked, sharply; "there's a good deal of work to do, and we can hardly catch up to it to-day."
"I'm sorry. I've been listening to a man," said William, quietly.
"Must have been a preacher, and a mighty solemn one at that, judging from your sober face," said Whimple, more gently.
"Not exactly a preacher, but I never heard a better sermon," answered William, quietly, "never;" and then he started on his work, and kept at it to such effect that, when they closed up for the night, Whimple declared, as he had often done before, "You're certainly a wonder, William."