JANE BROWN
Mr. Brown was a busy man, but he never failed to be in his place at
the foot of the table every day punctually at half past twelve, solely
because at that hour his little daughter, Jane, would show her grave and
earnest and dark brown, almost swarthy, face at the head. Eight years
ago another face used to appear there, also grave, earnest, but very
fair and very lovely to look upon, to the doctor the fairest of all
faces on the earth. The little, plain, swarthy-faced child the next day
after that lovely face had been forever shut away from the doctor's eyes
was placed in her high chair at the head of the table, at first only at
the lunch hour, but later at all meal times before the doctor to look
at. And it was an ever-recurring joy to the lonely man to discover in
the little grave face before him fleeting glimpses of the other face
so tenderly loved and so long vanished. These glimpses were to be
discovered now in the deep blue eyes, deep in colour and in setting, now
in the smile that lit up the dark, irregular features like the sudden
break of sunlight upon the rough landscape, transforming it into
loveliness, now in the knitting of the heavy eyebrows, and in the firm
pressing of the lips in moments of puzzled thought. In all the moods and
tenses of the little maid the doctor looked for and found reminiscences
of her mother.
Through those eight lonely years the little girl had divided with his
profession the doctor's days. Every morning after breakfast he stood to
watch the trim, sturdy, round little figure dance down the steps, step
primly down the walk, turn at the gate to throw a kiss, and then march
away along the street to the corner where another kiss would greet him
before the final vanishing. Every day they met at noon to exchange on
equal terms the experiences of the morning. Every night they closed the
day with dinner and family prayers, the little girl gravely taking her
part in the reading during the last year from her mother's Bible. And so
it came that with the years their friendship grew in depth, in frankness
and in tenderness. The doctor was widely read beyond the literature of
his profession, and every day for a half hour it was his custom to
share with the little girl the treasures of his library. The little maid
repaid him with a passionate love and a quaint mothering care tender and
infinitely comforting to the lonely man.
The forenoon had been hot and trying, and Dr. Brown, having been
detained in his office beyond his regular hour, had been more than
usually hurried in his round of morning calls, and hence was more than
ordinarily tired with his morning's work. At his door the little girl
met him.
“Come in, Papa, I know you're hot,” she said, love and reproach in her
face, “because I was hot myself, and you will need a nice, cool drink.
I had one and yours is in here.” She led him into the study, hovering
about him with little touches and pushes. “You ought not to have taken
so long a round this morning,” she said with gentle severity. “I know
you went out to St. James to see Mrs. Kale, and you know quite well she
doesn't need you. It would do in the afternoon. And it was awful hot in
school.”
“Awful?” said the doctor.
“Well, very exceedingly then--and the kids were very tired and Miss
Mutton was as cross as anything.”
“It was no wonder. How many kids were there for her to watch?”
“Oh, Papa, you said 'kids!'”
“I was just quoting my young daughter.”
“And she said we were to get out this afternoon an hour earlier,”
continued Jane, ignoring his criticism, “and so I am going to take my
bicycle and go with Nora and the girls down to the freight sheds.”
“The freight sheds?”
“Yes, Larry and Joe have come in, and Rover and Rosie--she's the cow,
and they milked her every day twice and drank the milk and they used to
have their meals together in the car.”
“Rosie, too? Very interesting indeed.”
“Now, Papa, you must not laugh at me. It is very interesting. They all
came for days and days together in the car from somewhere down East,
Ontario, I think. And Mr. Gwynne says they are just like a circus. And
they play instiments and dance.”
“What, Rosie too? How clever of her!”
The child's laugh rang out joyously. “Oh, Papa, that's awfully funny.
And we're going down on our wheels. Nora can ride now, you know, and
she's going to take Ethel May's wheel. It's awfully hard to ride, but
Nora's as strong as Kathleen.”
“Well, well,” said her father, greatly interested in this exciting but
somewhat confused tale. “Just wait until I wash my hands and then you
shall tell me what it all means. Thank you for this deliciously cool
lemonade. It is very refreshing. You will tell me all about it at
lunch.”
The lunch hour was devoted first of all to disentangling from the mass
the individual members of the car party, which after an adventurous
journey across half a continent had apparently made camp at the Winnipeg
freight sheds. Then followed the elucidation of the details of the plan
by which this camp was to be attacked and raided during the afternoon.
“Now that I have a fairly clear conception of whom Larry, Joe, Sam,
Rosie and Rover are--I think I have them right--”
“Exactly, Papa.”
“I wish to find out just who are to form the advance party, the scouting
party.”
“The scouting party? I don't know what you mean. But Nora--you know
Nora?”
“Certainly, the little black-eyed Irish Terrier--terror, I mean.”
“Oh, Papa, she's just lovely and she's my friend.”
“Is she, dear, then I apologise, but indeed I meant nothing derogatory
to her. I greatly like her, she is so spunky.”
“Yes, there's Nora, and Kathleen, Nora's sister.”
“Oh, Kathleen, the tall beautiful girl with the wonderful hair?”
The little girl sighed. “Oh, such lovely long yellow hair.” The little
maid's hair was none of these. “And she is not a bit proud--just nice,
you know--just as if she were not so lovely, but like--only like me.”
“Like you, indeed!” exclaimed the doctor indignantly. “Like my little
girl? I don't see any one quite like my little girl. There is not one of
them with all their yellow hair and things that is to be compared with
my own little girl.”
“Oh, Papa. I know you think so, and I wish it was so. And I am awfully
glad you think so, but of course you are prejuist, you know.”
“Prejudiced? Not a bit, not a bit.”
“Well, that's Kathleen and Nora, and--and perhaps Hazel--you know Hazel,
Papa, Hazel Sleighter?”
“The western girl--not at all wild and woolly though. A very modern and
very advanced young lady, isn't she?”
“Oh, I don't know what you mean, Papa. She says she may go down, but
I don't think she likes going with a lot of kids. You know she has her
hair up. She has to have it up in the store. She says the man would not
have her behind the counter if she had not her hair up.”
“Oh, that's it. I thought perhaps the maturity of her age made it
necessary.”
“I don't know what maturevy means, but she is awfully old. She is going
on sixteen.”
“Dear me, as old as that?” inquired her father.
“Yes, but she said she wanted to see that circus car. That's what she
calls Mr. Gwynne's car. And she says she wants to see the elephunts
perform. There are not any elephunts. There's only Rosie and Rover. But
she may get off. She can get off if she can fool her boss, she says. So
we're all going down and we may bring Larry home with us, Mrs. Sleighter
says. Though Mrs. Gwynne says there's not any room, they're so filled up
now. And I said Larry could come here and Joe, too. But I am not so
sure about Sam. I think he must be awfully queer. Mr. Gwynne thinks he's
queer.”
“It is quite possible, indeed probable, my dear,” assented her father.
“Yes, Mr. Gwynne said he looked like a third-rate how-do-you-feel
performer.”
“A what, exactly?”
“A how-do-you-feel performer.”
“Oh, a vaudeville performer.”
“Yes, a fodefeel performer. I don't know what that means, but he must be
queer. But I think Larry would be all right, and Joe. You see, we know
THEM.”
“Oh, do we?”
“Yes, certainly, Papa. Larry is Nora's brother. He's awfully clever.
He's only fifteen and he passed the Entrance in Ontario and that's ever
so much harder than here. He passed it before he was fourteen.”
“Before he was fourteen!” replied her father. “Amazing!”
“Yes, and he plays the mouth organ and the tin whistle and the fiddle,
and Mr. Gwynne says he has learned some stunts from Sam. I think he must
be awfully nice. So I said he could come here. And Mrs. Gwynne thanked
me so nicely, and she's just lovely, Papa.”
“I have not seen her,” said her father, “but I have heard her voice, and
I quite agree with you. The voice always tells. Have you noticed that?
The voice gives the keynote of the soul.”
“I don't know, Papa. There's Mrs. Sleighter's voice. I don't like it
very much, but I think she's nice inside.”
“Ah, you are right, my dear. Perhaps I should have said that a certain
kind of voice always goes with a beautiful soul.”
“I know,” replied his daughter. “That's like Mrs. Gwynne's voice. And so
we'll go down to the car and bring Larry home with us, and perhaps his
mother will let him come here. She did not say she would and you can't
tell. She's quiet, you know, but somehow she isn't like Mrs. Sleighter.
I don't think you could coax her to do what she didn't want.”
“And Mrs. Sleighter--can you coax Mrs. Sleighter?”
“Oh, yes, the girls just coax her and coax her, and though she doesn't
want to a bit, she just gives in.”
“That's nice of her. That must be very nice for the girls, eh?”
“Oh, I don't know, Papa.”
“What? don't you think it is nice to be able to coax people to do what
you want?”
“It is nice to get what you want, but I think REALLY, REALLY, you'd
rather you could not coax them to do it just because you coax them.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yes; you see, you're never really quite sure after you get it whether
you ought to get it after all.”
“I see,” said her father; “that rather spoils it.”
“Yes, but you never do that, Papa.”
“Oh, you can't coax me, eh? I am glad to know that. I was afraid,
rather.”
“Well, of course, I can coax you, Papa, but you usually find some other
way, and then I know it is quite right.”
“I wish I was quite as sure of that, Jane. But you are going to bring
Larry home with you?”
“Yes, if Mrs. Gwynne will let him come. I told her we had four rooms and
we were only using two, and they are all crowded up in Mrs. Sleighter's,
two girls in each room, and Tom's room is so tiny, and I don't think
Larry would like to go in Tom's room. And we have two empty rooms, so we
might just as well.”
“Yes, certainly, we might just as well. You might perhaps mention it to
Anna.”
“Oh, I did, Papa, and she said she would have it all ready.”
“So it is all arranged. I was thinking--but never mind.”
“I know you were thinking, that I ought to have asked you, Papa; and I
ought to have. But I knew that when a little boy had no home to go to
you would of course--”
“Of course,” replied her father hurriedly. “You were quite right, Jane.
And with those two rooms, why not bring them all, Joe and Pete--Pete, is
it?”
“Sam, Papa. I am not so sure. I think we should leave Joe and Sam. You
see Joe won't mind staying in the car. Nora says he lives in just a
shack at home, and Sam--I am a little afraid of Sam. We don't know him
very well, you see.”
“I see. We are quite safe in your hands, little woman. You can do just
as you and Mrs. Gwynne arrange.”
As the father watched the little, trim, sturdy figure stepping down the
street he muttered to himself, “That child grows more like her mother
every day.” He heaved a great sigh from the depths of his heart. “Well,
God keep her, wise little woman that she is! I wish I were a wiser man.
I must be firm with her; it would be a shame to spoil her. Yes, I must
be firm.” But he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at himself. “The
worst of it is, or the best of it is,” he continued, “the little witch
is almost always right, God bless her, just like her mother, just like
her mother.” He hastily wiped his eyes, and went off to his office where
Mrs. Dean awaited him and her little girl with the burned hand. And the
mother wondered at the gentleness of him as he dressed the little girl's
wounded hand.
It followed that the scouting party included not only Miss Hazel
Sleighter, but also her big brother Tom, who, being temporarily in the
high school, more perhaps because of his size and the maturity of his
bearing than by virtue of his educational qualifications, was at the
present moment most chiefly concerned in getting into form his baseball
team for the match the following Saturday in which the High School was
to meet All Comers under eighteen. The freight shed being on his way to
the practice ground, Tom deigned to join the party and to take in the
circus car as he passed. The car dwellers were discovered on the open
prairie not far from the freight shed, keeping guard over Rosie, who was
stretching her legs after her railway journey. The boys were tossing a
baseball to each other as Tom pedalled up on his wheel.
“Hello, there, here you are,” he shouted to Sam, holding up his hands
for a catch.
The ball came with such impact that Tom was distinctly jarred, and
dropped the ball. With all his force he threw the ball back to Sam,
who caught it with the ease of a professional and returned it with such
vigour that again Tom dropped it.
“Let's have a knock-up,” he said, hitting a long fly.
Sam flew after the ball with amazing swiftness, his scarecrow garments
fluttering and flapping in the air, and caught it with an upward leap
that landed him on his back breathless but triumphant.
“Say, you're a crackerjack,” said Tom; “here's another.”
Meanwhile Larry was in the hands of his sisters, who had delightedly
kissed him to his shamefaced chagrin, and introduced him to their
new-found friends.
“So this is Larry.” said Miss Hazel Sleighter, greeting him with a
dazzling smile. “We have heard a lot about you. I think you must be
quite wonderful. Come here, Tom, and meet your friends.”
Poor Larry! In the presence of this radiant creature and of her
well-dressed brother, he felt terribly conscious of the shabbiness of
the second best suit which his mother had thought good enough for
the journey in the car. Tom glanced at the slight, poorly dressed,
pale-faced lad who stood before him with an embarrassed, almost a
beseeching look in his eyes.
“Can you play ball?” asked Tom.
“Not much,” replied Larry; “not like Sam. Come here, Sam,” he called,
remembering that he had not introduced his friend. Sam shuffled over
with an air of complete nonchalance.
“This is Sam,” said Larry. “Sam--I have forgotten your name.”
“Nolan,” said Sam shortly.
“Miss Hazel Sleighter,” said Larry.
“How do you do, Miss Hazel,” said Sam, sweeping her an elaborate bow,
and then gazing boldly into her eyes. “I hope you're well. If you're as
smart as you look, I guess you're way up in G.”
“I am quite well, thank you,” returned Miss Hazel, the angle of her chin
indicating her most haughty air.
“Say, young lady, pass up the chilly stuff,” replied Sam with a laugh.
“It don't go with that mighty fine complexion of yours. Say, did you
ever see the leading lady in 'The Spider's Web'? Well, you make me think
of her, and she was a peacherino. Never seen her? No? Well, you ought to
see her some day and think of me.”
Hazel turned a disgusted shoulder on Sam's impudent face and engaged
Larry in vivacious conversation.
“Well, I am off to the ball practice,” said Tom. “Got a match on
Saturday--High School against the world. Guess they would like to have
you, Sam, only I wouldn't care to have you play against us. You don't
play baseball, eh?” continued Tom, addressing Larry. “What do you
play--football?”
“Not much; never tried much,” said Larry, flushing over his lack of
sporting qualifications.
“He plays the fiddle,” said a quiet little voice.
Larry, flushing violently, turned around and saw a little, brown-faced
maid gazing thoughtfully at him.
“Oh, he does, eh? Ha, ha, ha. Good game, eh? Ha, ha, ha.” They all
joined in the laugh.
“And he plays the mouth organ, too, and does funny stunts,” sturdily
continued the little girl, disdaining Tom's scornful laughter.
“Good for you, Jane.”
“Yes, and he passed his entrance to the High School a year ago when
he was fourteen, in Ontario, anyway.” This appeared to check Tom's
hilarity.
“My, what a wonder he is! And did he tell you all this himself?”
“No, indeed,” said Jane indignantly.
“Oh, I am glad to hear that,” said Tom with a grin. “Won't you come
along, Sam? It's only a little way down.”
“All right,” said Sam cheerfully. “So long, folks. See you later, Larry.
Au reservoir, young lady, as the camel said to the elephant when
he asked what he'd have. Hope I see you later if not sooner--ta-ta;
tinga-ling; honk honk.” Again he swept Miss Hazel an elaborate bow.
“Thinks he's smart,” said that young lady, lifting her nose. “He's a
regular scarecrow. Who in the world is he and where did he come from?”
she demanded of Larry, who proceeded to account for Sam's presence with
their party.
The visitors peered into the car and poked into its recesses, discovered
the food supplies for boy and beast, and inspected the dormitories
under Larry's guidance, while the boy, who had recovered from his
embarrassment, discoursed upon the wonderful experience of the journey.
Miss Hazel flashed her great blue eyes and her white teeth upon him,
shook all her frizzes in his face, smiled at him, chattered to him,
jeered at him, flattered him with all the arts and graces of the
practiced flirt she was, until Larry, swept from his bearings, walked
the clouds in a wonder world of rosy lights and ravishing airs. His
face, his eyes, his eager words, his tremulous lips, were all eloquent
of this new passion that possessed him.
As for Miss Hazel, accustomed as she was to the discriminating
admiration of her fellow clerks, the sincerity and abandonment of this
devotion was as incense to her flirtatious soul. Avid of admiration and
experienced in most of the arts and wiles necessary to secure this from
contiguous males, small wonder that the unsophisticated Larry became her
easy prey long before she had brought to bear the full complement of her
enginery of war.
It was a happy afternoon for the boy, but when informed by his sisters
of his mother's desire that he should return with them, he was resolute
in his refusal, urging many reasons why it was impossible that he should
leave the car and his comrades. There was nothing for it but to leave
him there and report to his mother their failure.
“I might have known,” she said. “He would never come to a stranger's
house in his old clothes. I will just bring down his best suit after
tea.”
The dinner hour at Dr. Brown's was fully occupied with an animated
recital of the adventures of the afternoon. Each member of the car party
was described with an accuracy and fulness of detail that would have
surprised him.
“And you know, Papa,” said the little maid, “Tom just laughed at Larry
because he could not play baseball and things, and I just told him that
Larry could play the mouth organ lovely and the fiddle, and they laughed
and laughed. I think they were laughing at me. Tom laughed loudest of
all, and he's not so smart himself, and anyway Larry passed the entrance
a year ago and I just told him so.”
“Oh, did you,” said her father, “and how did Master Tom take that?”
“He didn't laugh quite as much. I don't think I like him very much.”
“Ah?”
“But Hazel, she was just lovely to Larry. I think she's nice, Papa, and
such lovely cheeks and hair.” Here Jane sighed.
“Oh, has she? She is quite a grown-up young lady, is she not?”
“She has her hair up, Papa. She's sixteen, you know.”
“I remember you told me that she had reached that mature age.”
“And I think Larry liked her, too.”
“Ah? And why do you think so?”
“He just looked at her, and looked, and looked.”
“Well, that seems fairly good evidence.”
“And he is coming up here to-night when we bring him his good clothes.”
“Oh, you are to bring him his good clothes, are you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Gwynne and I are taking them down in the carriage.”
“Oh, in the carriage--Mrs. Gwynne--”
“Yes, you know--Oh, here's Nora at the door. Excuse me, Papa. I am sure
it is important.”
She ran to the door and in a moment or two returned with a note. “It's
for you, Papa, and I know it's about the carriage.” She watched her
father somewhat anxiously as he read the note.
“Umm-um. Very good, very nice and proper. Certainly. Just say to
Mrs. Gwynne that we are very pleased to be able to serve her with the
carriage, and that we hope Larry will do us the honour of coming to us.”
Jane nodded delightedly. “I know, Papa. I told her that already. But
I'll tell her this is the answer to the note.”
Under Jane's direction and care they made their visit to the car, but on
their return no Larry was with them. He would come after the picnic
and baseball game tomorrow, perhaps, but not to-night. His mother was
plainly disappointed, and indeed a little hurt. She could not understand
her son. It was not his clothes after all as she had thought. She
pondered over his last words spoken as he bade her farewell at the car
door, and was even more mystified.
“I'll be glad when we get to our own place again,” he said. “I hate
to be beholden to anybody. We're as good as any of them anyway.” The
bitterness in his tone mystified her still more.
It was little Jane who supplied the key to the mystery. “I don't think
he likes Tom very much,” said the little girl. “He likes Hazel, though.
But he might have come to our house; I did not laugh.” And then the
mother thought she understood.
That sudden intensity of bitterness in her boy's voice startled her a
little, but deep down in her heart she was conscious of a queer feeling
of satisfaction, almost of pride. “He's just like his father,” she said
to herself. “He likes to be independent.” Strict honesty in thought made
her add, “And like me, too, I fear.”
The picnic day was one of those intensely hot June days when the whole
world seems to stand quivering and breathlessly attent while Nature
works out one of her miracles over fields of grain, over prairie
flowers, over umbrageous trees and all things borne upon the bosom
of Mother Earth, checking the succulence of precocious overgrowths,
hardening fibre, turning plant energy away from selfish exuberance in
mere stalk building into the altruistic sacrament of ripening fruit and
hardening grain. A wise old alchemist is Mother Earth, working in time
but ever for eternity.
The picnickers who went out to the park early in the day were driven for
refuge from the blazing sun to the trees and bushes, where prostrated by
the heat they lay limp and flaccid upon the grass. Miss Hazel Sleighter,
who for some reason which she could not explain to herself had joined
the first contingent of picnickers, was cross, distinctly and obviously
cross. The heat was trying to her nerves, but worse, it made her face
red--red all over. Her pink parasol intensified the glow upon her face.
“What a fool I was to come, in this awful heat,” she said to herself.
“They won't be here for hours, and I will be just like a wash-rag.”
Nor was Larry enjoying the picnic. The material comforts in the form of
sandwiches, cakes and pies, gloriously culminating in lemonade and ice
cream, while contributing a temporary pleasure, could not obliterate a
sense of misery wrought in him by Miss Hazel's chilly indifference. That
young lady, whose smiles so lavishly bestowed only yesterday had made
for him a new heaven and a new earth, had to-day merely thrown him
a passing glance and a careless “Hello,” as she floated by intent on
bigger game.
In addition, the boy was conscious of an overpowering lassitude that
increased as the day wore on. His misery and its chief cause had not
escaped the observing eyes of the little maid, Jane Brown, whose clear
and incisive voice was distinctly audible as she confided to her friend
Nora her disappointment in Miss Hazel.
“She won't look at him to-day,” she said. “She's just waiting for the
boys to come. She'll be nicer then.”
There was no animus in the voice, only surprise and disappointment. To
Larry, however, the fact that the secret tragedy of his soul was thus
laid bare, filled him with a sudden rage. He cast a wrathful eye upon
the little maid. She met his glance with a placid smile, volunteering
the cheerful remark, “They won't be long now.”
A fury possessed the boy. “Oh shut your mouth, will you?” he said,
glaring at her.
For a moment little Jane looked at him, surprise, dismay, finally pity
succeeding each other in the deep blue eyes. Hastily she glanced about
to see if the others had heard the awful outburst. She was relieved
to note that only Joe and Nora were near enough to hear. She settled
herself down in a position of greater comfort and confided to her friend
Nora with an air of almost maternal solicitude, “I believe he has a
pain. I am sure he has a pain.”
Larry sprang to his feet, and without a glance at his anxious tormentor
said, “Come on, Joe, let's go for a hunt in the woods.”
Jane looked wistfully after the departing boys. “I wish they would ask
us, Nora. Don't you? I think he is nice when he isn't mad,” she said. To
which Nora firmly assented.
A breeze from the west and the arrival of the High School team,
resplendent in their new baseball uniforms, brought to the limp
loiterers under the trees a reviving life and interest in the day's
doings.
It was due to Jane that Sam got into the game, for when young Frank
Smart was searching for a suitable left fielder to complete the All
Comers team, he spied seated among the boys the little girl.
“Hello, Jane; in your usual place, I see!” he called out to her as he
passed.
“Hello, Frank!” she called to him brightly. “Frank! Frank!” she cried,
after the young man had passed, springing up and running after him.
“I am in a hurry, Jane; I must get a man for left field.”
“But, Frank,” she said, catching his arm, for young Smart was a great
friend of hers and of her father's. “I want to tell you. You see that
funny boy under the tree,” she continued, lowering her voice. “Well,
he's a splendid player. Tom doesn't want him to play, and I don't
either, because I want the High School to beat. But it would not be fair
not to tell you, would it?”
Young Smart looked at her curiously. “Say, little girl, you're a sport.
And is he a good player?”
“Oh, he's splendid, but he's queer--I mean he looks queer. He's awfully
funny. But that doesn't matter, does it?”
“Not a hair, if he can play ball. What's his name?”
“Sam--something.”
“Sam Something? That is a funny name.”
“Oh, you know, Sam. I don't know his other name.”
“Well, I'll try him, Jane,” said young Smart, moving toward the boy and
followed by the eager eyes of the little girl.
“I say, Sam,” said Smart, “we want a man for left field. Will you take a
go at it?”
“Too hot,” grunted Sam.
“Oh, you won't find it too hot when you get started. Rip off your coat
and get into the game. You can play, can't you?”
“Aw, what yer givin' us. I guess I can give them ginks a few pointers.”
“Well, come on.”
“Too hot,” said Sam.
Jane pulled young Smart by the sleeve. “Tell him you will give him a
jersey,” she said in a low voice. “His shirt is torn.”
Again young Smart looked at Jane with scrutinising eyes. “You're a
wonder,” he said.
“Come along, Sam. You haven't got your sweater with you, but I will get
one for you. Get into the bush there and change.”
With apparent reluctance, but with a gleam in his little red eyes, Sam
slouched into the woods to make the change, and in a few moments came
forth and ran to take his position at left field.
The baseball match turned out to be a mere setting for the display
of the eccentricities and superior baseball qualities of Sam, which
apparently quite outclassed those of his teammates in the match. After
three disastrous innings, Sam caused himself to be moved first to the
position of short stop, and later to the pitcher's box, to the immense
advantage of his side. But although, owing to the lead obtained by the
enemy, his prowess was unable to ward off defeat from All Comers, yet
under his inspiration and skilful generalship, the team made such a
brilliant recovery of form and came so near victory that Sam was carried
from the field in triumph shoulder high and departed with his new and
enthusiastically grateful comrades to a celebration.
Larry, however, was much too miserable and much too unhappy for anything
like a celebration. The boy was oppressed with a feeling of loneliness,
and was conscious chiefly of a desire to reach his car and crawl into
his bed there among the straw. Stumbling blindly along the dusty road; a
cheery voice hailed him.
“Hello, Larry!” It was Jane seated beside her father in his car.
“Hello!” he answered faintly and just glanced at her as the car passed.
But soon the car pulled up. “Come on, Larry, we'll take you home,” said
Jane.
“Oh, I'm all right,” said Larry, forcing his lips into his old smile and
resolutely plodding on.
“Better come up, my boy,” said the doctor.
“I don't mind walking, sir,” replied Larry, stubbornly determined to go
his lonely way.
“Come here, boy,” said the doctor, regarding him keenly. Larry came over
to the wheel. “Why, boy, what is the matter?” The doctor took hold of
his hand.
Larry gripped the wheel hard. He was feeling desperately ill and
unsteady on his legs, but still his lips twisted themselves into a
smile. “I'm all right, sir,” he said; “I've got a headache and it was
pretty hot out there.”
But even as he spoke his face grew white and he swayed on his feet.
In an instant the doctor was out of his car. “Get in, lad,” he said
briefly, and Larry, surrendering, climbed into the back seat, fighting
fiercely meanwhile to prevent the tears from showing in his eyes.
Keeping up a brisk and cheerful conversation with Jane in regard to the
game, the doctor drove rapidly toward his home.
“You will come in with us, my boy,” said the doctor as they reached his
door.
By this time Larry was past all power of resistance and yielded himself
to the authority of the doctor, who had him upstairs and into bed within
a few minutes of his arrival. A single word Larry uttered during this
process, “Tell my mother,” and then sank into a long nightmare, through
which there mingled dim shapes and quiet voices, followed by dreamless
sleep, and an awakening to weakness that made the lifting of his eyelids
an effort and the movement of his hand a weariness. The first object
that loomed intelligible through the fog in which he seemed to move was
a little plain face with great blue eyes carrying in them a cloud of
maternal anxiety. Suddenly the cloud broke and the sun burst through in
a joyous riot, for in a voice that seemed to him unfamiliar and remote
Larry uttered the single word, “Jane.”
“Oh!” cried the little girl rapturously. “Oh, Larry, wait.” She slipped
from the room and returned in a moment with his mother, who quickly came
to his side.
“You are rested, dear,” she said, putting her hand under his head.
“Drink this. No, don't lift your head. Now then, go to sleep again,
darling,” and, stooping down, she kissed him softly.
“Why--are--you--crying?” he asked faintly. “What's the--matter?”
“Nothing, darling; you are better. Just sleep.”
“Better?--Have--I--been--sick?”
“Yes, you have been sick,” said his mother.
“Awfully sick,” said Jane solemnly. “A whole week sick. But you are all
right now,” she added brightly, “and so is Joe, and Sam, and Rover and
Rosie. I saw them all this morning and you know we have been praying and
praying and--”
“Now he will sleep, Jane,” said his mother, gently touching the little
girl's brown tangle of hair.
“Yes, he will sleep; oh, I'm just awful thankful,” said Jane, suddenly
rushing out of the room.
“Dear little girl,” said the mother. “She has been so anxious and so
helpful--a wonderful little nurse.”
But Larry was fast asleep, and before he was interested enough to make
inquiry about his comrades in travel the car in charge of Joe and Sam,
with Mr. Gwynne in the caboose, was far on its way to Alberta. After
some days Jane was allowed to entertain the sick boy, as was her custom
with her father, by giving an account of her day's doings. These were
happy days for them both. Between the boy and the girl the beginnings of
a great friendship sprang up.
“Larry, I think you are queer,” said Jane to him gravely one day. “You
are not a bit like you were in the car.”
A quick flush appeared on the boy's face. “I guess I was queer that day,
Jane,” he said. “I know I felt queer.”
“Yes, that's it,” said Jane, delighted by some sudden recollection. “You
were queer then, and now you're just ornary. My, you were sick and you
were cross, too, awful cross that day. I guess it was the headick. I get
awfully cross, too, when I have the headick. I don't think you will be
cross again ever, will you, Larry?”
Larry, smiling at her, replied, “I'll never be cross with you, Jane,
anyway, never again.”