THE COMEBACK
That was all very well but, you see, this was not Hervey’s first flop.
It was his second one in three days. He was very subdued going home in
the bus, and refrained from telling any one of his adventure beyond the
fence. It was important that his father should not hear of it.
Not that his father would think the affair so terrible, considered by
itself. It was against the background of his father’s mood that it
seemed so bad. At all events it was very unfortunate. His father was in
no humor to consider all the circumstances. If he knew that Hervey had
been arrested and fined, that would be enough. Hervey could not tell him
after the warning he had so recently received.
But he must get five dollars, and he knew not what to do. Five dollars
seemed a good deal of money to get without giving a pretty good reason.
And he had to get it within a brief, specified time. Failing, he had
visions of an official from Farrelton Junction coming to get him.
He was very quiet at the supper table that evening and afterward asked
Mr. Walton if he might go out for a while. He had thought that he might
confide in his stepfather and take a chance on the consequences, but he
could not bring himself to do that. He thought of his stepmother, always
kind and affectionate, but he was afraid she would be agitated at the
knowledge of his predicament and take counsel with her husband. Here
again Hervey did not quite dare to take a chance. He thought of Myra,
the hired girl. But Myra was spending the night with her people and
Hervey did not like to seek her there.
He went down in the cellar and got out his bicycle, the only thing of
value that he possessed. He took it out the cellar way and rode it
downtown to Berly’s Bicycle Shop. It would probably be some days before
either Mr. or Mrs. Walton would ask about the bicycle, and Hervey’s
thought, as usual, did not reach beyond the immediate present. He did
not like the idea of selling his bicycle; it had never seemed quite so
dear to him as on that very ride downtown. But this was the only
solution of his problem.
Mr. Berly looked the machine over leisurely. “How much do you want for
it?” he asked.
It had never occurred to Hervey to ask for more than the sum he needed,
but now he realized that he might sell the bicycle and be a millionaire
in the bargain. “Would you give--twelve dollars for it?” he ventured
timorously.
Mr. Berly scrutinized him. “Your parents want you to sell it?” he asked.
“Don’t it belong to me?” said Hervey uncomfortably.
“Well, I think you better ask your folks about it first,” the dealer
said. “See what they say, then if everything is all right you come back
here and I’ll give you the right price for it.”
Hervey’s hopes were dashed. He rode his bike down the street with an odd
feeling of being both glad and sorry. But mainly he was worried, for
time was precious and he knew he must do something. He stopped in front
of the home of Harlem Hinkey and gave his familiar call. He hoped Hinkey
would come out, yet somehow he hoped he wouldn’t come out. He hardly
knew how he would approach the subject with Hinkey.
The Hinkeys had a great deal of money and supplied their son rather too
liberally with it. They had lately moved from New York, and since Hinkey
was unpopular and Hervey was an odd number, they had struck up
acquaintance. Hinkey was a devotee of the practical joke and his joy was
always in proportion to the discomfort of his victims. He boasted much
of his imperial status in Harlem where he had held sway until his father
took over a motion picture theatre in Farrelton. He came sauntering out
in response to Hervey’s call. And all inadvertently he made it easy for
Hervey to begin.
“You want to go down to the show?” Hinkey asked.
“I would except for this blamed old bike,” said Hervey. “Bimbo, I’d sell
the darned thing for five dollars, it’s such a blamed nuisance.”
“What are you riding it for then?”
“I’m just bringing it home from Berly’s Bicycle Shop,” said Hervey. “I
never use it much. Places where I go, you couldn’t ride a bike. If you
should meet any one that wants to buy a bike, let me know, will you?”
“Sure,” said Hinkey, uninterested.
“Do you want to buy it?” Hervey asked, emboldened.
“What would I want to buy it for when I drive a car?” Hinkey asked.
That was Hervey’s last hope. He rode his bike home, put it in the cellar
and went upstairs to his room. He had many times disregarded the law,
but he had never before found himself at grips with it like this. And
all because he had been just a little heedless in pursuing a ball. He
thought that the whole business was monstrously unfair.
What had he done that was so bad? It never occurred to him that the
whole trouble was this-- that he had got himself into a position where
he could not move either way. He could not run the risk of making a
confident of Mr. Walton in this small matter because of other matters.
This matter was serious only because he had made it so. He was in a
predicament, as he always was. Once he had hung from a tree by his feet
and could not let go nor yet regain hold with his hands. And there you
have Hervey. Mental quandaries or physical quandaries, it was all the
same.
Well, there was one thing he could do which he had many times thought of
doing; he could run away from home. That seemed to be the only thing
left to do. He had many times made unauthorized excursions from home,
but he had never run away. Happy-go-lucky and reckless as he was, he
could not think of this without a tremor. But it was the only thing to
do. He would not go to jail even for a day, he could not pay his fine,
and he dared not tell his stepfather of his predicament. He resolved to
run away.
Once resolved to do a thing, Hervey was never at a loss. He would go
away and he would never return. He would go that very night. Since he
was unable to meet the situation he had a feeling that at any moment
something might happen. Yet he did not know where to go. Well, he would
think about that after he got in bed and would start off early in the
morning; that would be better. There was a circus in Clover Valley. Why
wouldn’t it be a good idea to hike there and join the circus? Surely
they could give him a job. And pretty soon he would be miles and miles
distant. He had had enough of Farrelton and all this business....
He started to undress, but he was not altogether happy. Suppose
everything did not go right? He had no money--oh well, a lot he cared!
He sat on the edge of the bed unlacing his shoes. No promptings of
sentiment stood in the way of his resolve. But running away from home
without any money was a serious business and he wondered just how he was
going to manage it. He would like to go to sea, only in this inland
city----
He was startled by the banging of the front door knocker downstairs. The
sound broke upon his worried cogitations like a hundred earthquakes. Who
could that be at half past nine at night? He heard footfalls in the hall
below, then muffled voices. He crept to his door, opened it a little,
and listened. He was trembling, he knew not why. That justice man had
given him till the next day; if---- Why it wouldn’t be fair at all.
Yet he distinctly heard the word _punished_ uttered by a strange voice.
His heart was in his mouth. Should he climb out through the window and
jump from the roof of the kitchen shed, and then run? What were they
talking about down there? He heard the word _police_. Perhaps they knew
he could not get the money and were taking no chances. Then he heard the
gentle voice of his stepmother saying, “The poor boy.” That was himself.
He rushed to the window, threw up the screen, put one foot out. He heard
footfalls on the stairs. They seemed to come half way up, then paused.
“Hervey, dear,” Mrs. Walton called.
He did not answer, but in a sudden impulse sprang back into the room and
grabbed his outlandish, rimless hat from one of the posts of his
old-fashioned bed.
“Hervey, dear?”
She opened the door just as he sat straddling the window-sill ready to
slide off the little shed roof.
“Here’s a letter for you, Hervey; a young fellow just left it. What on
earth are you doing, my dear boy? You’ll have the room full of flies and
moth millers.”
He came back into the room, tore open the envelope which his astonished
stepmother handed him, and the next thing he knew he was reading a note,
conscious all the while that part of it had fluttered to the floor.
Dear Hervey:--
I was mighty sorry to learn that you’ve given us up. Craig
Hobson told me and he seems to think it wouldn’t be worth
while talking to you. Of course, it’s better to be out of
the Scouts than to be in and not interested. He says _you_
can’t be _in_ anything and maybe after all he’s right.
You care so little about our thriving troop that I dare say
you have forgotten about the Delmore prize of five dollars
to every boy that introduces another boy to scouting. Chesty
McCullen went to give your message to Craig and Warner this
morning and stayed at their lawn camp and ate spaghetti and
begged to be allowed to take your place in the patrol. Of
course, nobody can take the place of Hervey Willetts, but
Chesty is all dolled up with a clean face and we’ve taken
him in and of course, we feel that you’re the fellow that
wished him onto us.
So here’s the five dollars, Herve, for introducing a new
member into the troop and please accept my thanks as your
scoutmaster, and the thanks of all these scouts who aren’t
smart enough to make heads or tails of you. And good luck to
you, Hervey Boy. You’re a bully little scout missionary
anyway.
Your scoutmaster,
Ebin Talbot
Hervey groped around under the bed and with trembling hand lifted the
crisp, new five dollar bill. And there he stood with a strange feeling
in his throat, clutching the bill and the letter while gentle Mrs.
Walton lowered the wire screen so that the room wouldn’t be full of
flies and moth millers.
“Well! Now aren’t you proud?” she asked.
He did not know whether he was proud or not. But he knew that the crazy
world was upside down. He had sent Chesty to denounce the Scouts and
Chesty had remained and joined. And the Scouts had sent five dollars and
called him a _missionary_.
“A missionary! Think of that!” said Mrs. Walton.
“It’s not so bad being a missionary,” said Hervey. “That isn’t calling
names. Bimbo, they go to Africa and Labrador--it’s not so bad being
called one.”
“Well, you’d better take your hat off and go to bed now,” said his
stepmother.
“You don’t think I’d let ’em call me names, do you?” Hervey demanded.
“That’s one thing.”
“I don’t see how you can hit them,” laughed Mrs. Walton, “they seem to
have such a long reach. It’s hard to get away from them.”
It certainly was a knockout.