A PATHETIC SIGHT
We shall pay particular attention to this sumptuous automobile which was
such as to attract attention in modest Bridgeboro. For one thing it was
of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro being for
the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black.
The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a
vision of grace and colorful beauty, set off with trimmings of shiny
nickel. The Hunkajunk people had outdone themselves in this latest model
and had produced "the car of a thousand delights." That seemed a good
many, but that is the number they announced, and surely they must have
known.
When one sat in the soft, spacious rear seat of the Hunkajunk touring
model, one felt the sensation of sinking into a--what shall I say? One
had a sort of sinking spell. You will pay particular attention to the
luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch
of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find
drifting around in the upper grade history books.
This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it
belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front
seat.
"Do look at that poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband.
"Stop for just a second; I _never_ saw such a pathetic picture in my
_life_!"
"Oh, what's the use stopping?" said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.
"Because I'm not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little
hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don't believe he's had
_anything_ to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it's
_pathetic_. Poor little fellow, he may be _starving_ for all we know.
I'm going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?"
"You mean _I'm_ going to give it to him?" laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping
the car.
"He's just _eating_ the things with his _eyes_," said Mrs. Bartlett
with womanly tenderness. "Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his
father is a drunken wretch."
"We'll be late for the show," said Mr. Bartlett.
"I don't care anything about the show," his wife retorted. "Do you
suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it is?
If we get there in time for the educational films, that's all I care
about. You gave money for the starving children of France. Do you
suppose I'm going to sit face to face with a little boy--_starving?_"
"I can't see his face," said Mr. Bartlett, "but he looks as if he had
the Woolworth Building in his back pocket."
"Little boy," Mrs. Bartlett called in her sweetest tone, "here is some
money for you. You go into that store and--_gracious me_, it's Walter
Harris! What on earth are you doing here, Walter? I thought you were a
poor little--I thought you were hungry."
The sturdy but diminutive form and the curly head and frowning
countenance which stood confronting her were none other than those of
Pee-wee Harris, B.S.A. (Boy of Special Appetite or Boy Scouts of
America, whichever you please), and he stared her full in the face
without shame.
"That's the time you guessed right," he said. "I am."