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A MELODY IN SILVER
By KEENE ABBOTT
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1911
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY KEENE ABBOTT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1911_
CONTENTS
I. THE LOST CAUSE 1
II. RUE AND ROSEMARY 14
III. THE WORLD'S END 20
IV. DEAD SEA FRUIT 30
V. THE MUG OF WOE 43
VI. "FAV-VER" 52
VII. AS A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT 66
VIII. THE GONE-AWAY LADY 75
IX. THE CRIME OF DAVID 86
X. THE NIP OF GUILT 97
XI. APOTHEOSIS 104
XII. LIGHT 113
XIII. THE SUBSTITUTE 125
XIV. SKY BLOSSOMS 142
A MELODY IN SILVER
CHAPTER I
THE LOST CAUSE
David had a suspicion. He did not know it was that, but that is
what it was. He suspected that Mother thought he was a good
little boy, and he suspected that she thought Mitchell Horrigan
was a bad little boy. Perhaps Mother had a suspicion, too; she
might have suspected that it was Mitch who had put a certain
notion into David's head--a notion which had to do with pants.
Only you must not call them pants; they are "trouvers."
But it doesn't really matter in the least what they are called.
Mitch had them. He also had the measles once. David did not know
whether it was the measles part or the pants part that made Mitch
a bad little boy. All David knew about it was that if he invited
Mitch into the yard to climb trees and give swimming lessons in
the high grass, it usually happened that Mother could think of
some important business for her little boy to do in the house. It
was surprising how many important matters there were for David to
do in the house every time Mitch came into the yard to play. She
might want to show him something, and perhaps it would be a
turn-over that she wanted to show him, a delicious little
half-grown pie stuffed with strawberries or with cherries.
If Mitch were waiting out under the trees, the toothsome bit of
pastry was always a very peculiar kind. Mother believed in
generosity, but generosity with limitations. Strawberry turn-over
was not good for Mitch. Mother was positive that it was not good
for him. That seemed a little singular to David, for he had never
noticed anything wrong with Mitch. It does not seem credible that
a boy who owns a real Indian bow 'n' arrow, which shoots so high
he can knock the eye out of an angel with it, should yet be so
foolish as to have a bad stomach.
David had never seen any of the one-eyed angels that Mitch had
knocked down out of heaven with his Indian bow 'n' arrow. Mitch
was not the kind to show all of his treasures. He didn't even
show his bow 'n' arrow. He kept it hid, so that if the police
ever found out about it they could not get it away from him. If
they wanted to arrest him for having it, that would be all
right, but they should not get hold of his Indian bow 'n' arrow.
The thing you liked about Mitch was that he was so reasonable.
One's faith in him would never be shaken unless one were to try
his recipe for getting trouvers. In theory it was a sound recipe.
Mitch, who had reached trouvers and understood the mightiness of
the achievement, could vouch for the sure result of his
prescription. It was guaranteed to cure the dress-habit in seven
days. At first, though, Mitch would not tell how the great honor
of pants had been bestowed upon him. He was then too important
even to say, "Hello, kid!" For a time he did not deign to notice
anybody, and when he did notice anybody it was only to pretend
that David was nothing but a little girl.
"I am not, neither."
David filed his protest between the palings of the fence. But it
was no use. He might protest, he might cross his heart and hope
to die, but still the boy on the other side of the fence would
not believe.
"Are, too," Mitch would say.
Then a startled look, an appealing, hopeless fear suddenly
abashed the little boy in the dainty white dress. As he shook the
ringlets out of his eyes he asked, earnestly:
"Why, then, am I a girl?"
Here, you see, was another case like the bow 'n' arrow. Mitch did
not have to tell all he knew. He only got proud and spat through
his teeth and said, "Why?" right back at David.
Such a question, you must agree, may be illuminating, but is not
satisfying. The meaning of it seems a bit indefinite and
lonesome, but if you are a little boy with ringlets it has
meaning enough. It hurts mightily. But Mitch was still not
satisfied.
"Dear Little Curly Locks," he said with contemptible sweetness,
"oo mustn't get oo dress dirty."
Then did David's fists clench defiantly, and he said an awful
swear.
"Dresses!" he exclaimed derisively; "that's all you know about
it. They're kilts!"
This defense was not convincing, for there is no good way, once
you think of it, to prove that a dress is a dress and that a kilt
is a kilt. The only way, I fear, to settle such a controversy is
to hit the other boy with a brick. Only David did not have a
brick. What he did have was a confused feeling that Mitch was
right. For might it not be true, this horrible thing about being
a girl? What if David was that, and couldn't ever get over it?
Now, Mitch, since you are at last in trouvers, here is the time
to prove to this ignominious comrade of yours that in you are the
instincts of a gentleman. Why don't you show David that there may
be a chance for him after all? It would be proper for you to
remind him that you yourself used to wear dresses, but of course
you will make sure to speak of the disgrace as a thing of many
years ago.
But there is no need, Mitch, in counseling David to go to
extremes. It is quite unnecessary to inform him that the way to
pants is a very simple matter. I dread to think that you are
telling him to tear his kilts "all to splinters." Of course that
can be done. You hook the skirt over a paling in the fence; then
you jump, and sometimes, David, it hurts when you hit the ground.
But what matter? You are fighting in a noble cause. Mother will
be so astonished! She will see how desperately you have outgrown
your kilts.
Only she did not see it. She picked the splinters out of David's
hands--cruel splinters from the fence--and she was very sorry for
her little boy. And as for the dresses, it was no great matter
about them. She would make other dresses for her David.
And that is why Mitchell Horrigan's recipe for pants is not a
good recipe. Even at the end of a week David could not report
much progress. Finally he had to acknowledge himself defeated. He
then bore the dishonor of kilts with what manfulness he could and
with a creed which was recited something like this:
"We don't care to play with Mitch any more, do we, Mother?"
Or again:
"We don't care nothing about trouvers, do we, Mother?"
Sometimes David would ask with husky heroism:
"Curls is all right for little boys, is they not?"
David was angry with Mitch; David was never going to speak to
Mitchell Horrigan any more. His resolution was so strong that he
hurried away to tell Mitch about it, but when the boy actually
appeared, it was hard to remember why one should be angry with
him. His brown feet came flapping along the stone walk, and in
his hand was a freshly whittled stick that made an animated
clatter when he drew it along the fence. There was that in the
reckless abandonment of Mitch which did not help David to tell
him that he was too mean and disgraceful to be spoken to. And
besides, his feelings might be hurt if one were to tell him that.
So, as Mitch came nearer and nearer, David felt guiltier and
guiltier, and presently he was surprised to hear himself asking
rather abjectly:
"You isn't mad at me, is you, Mitch?"
Trouvers ignored the humble salutation. He took out his knife and
began to whittle ceremoniously upon the stick.
"What you making?" David asked tentatively.
"Nothin' much," said Mitch, with the air of a man who has
invented steamships and flying machines. "Only a tiger trap."
David knew better. David knew that Mitch, in his insufferable
conceit, was merely whittling to show off his new knife. So,
pressing his red mouth between two white palings of the fence,
David declared in a strong voice:
"I have a bigger knife than that."
The assertion was boldly made, but when Mitch asked to see the
knife, David decided not to show it.
"Bigness don't count," said Mitch. "It's the steel."
He breathed upon the blade to test its quality. Every boy knows
that if the film of moisture is quick to vanish, there can be no
question about the superlative merit of the knife.
"Where did you get it?"
David was eager to know that, but Mitch decided that he must be
going. He hadn't time to stay here any longer. He intimated that
he had important business to look after. He was going to make a
kite ten feet tall, and, with the snobbishness of a plutocrat, he
went strutting away. He was almost beyond earshot when he
volunteered this brief information:
"My father, he guv it to me."
Had David heard correctly? Did Mitch say "father"? The little boy
had never thought of such an article as a father except as
something which belongs to a story book. Fathers were common
enough in the story books; they were men, but until this moment
David had never thought of them as being desirable. It now
appeared that they were good for something. Mitch Horrigan had
one. He actually kept a father, and the father gave him fine
presents.
Reflecting upon all this, David became a very quiet little boy.
There seemed to be nothing interesting for him to do. He had no
appetite for supper, and in his face was the look of one who
dreams of such mighty things as trouvers, and a hair-cut, and a
brand-new knife. And when, at last, it came time to kiss Mother
good-night, he turned appealing eyes upon her, and asked with
trembling lips:
"Why don't _I_ never have no fav-ver?"