ROY MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
It was just a month after our story opened that July afternoon. Roy was
fishing from the tree trunk over the creek again, but he was alone this
time and the expression on his face was almost as discontented as
Reginald’s had been on that former occasion.
His float bobbed under two or three times, but he paid no attention to
the fact. He was too deeply absorbed in thought. Now and then he would
glance up at the trestle far above him, and something very like a sigh
would pass his lips.
There was a snapping of twigs on the Marley end of the log and Roy
turned his head quickly to find a young man regarding him attentively.
He might have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty. He had a small
brown mustache and rather a dark complexion.
He held a small oblong box in both his hands. Roy at once recognized it
as a camera and realized at the same instant that it was pointed at
him.
As their eyes met, the stranger flushed slightly, but said in a
pleasant voice:
“I hope you don’t mind being taken?”
Roy did mind. He was in a mood just now to object to everything, but
the other’s voice was such an agreeable one, the glance of his eye so
kindly that the boy’s real self came to the surface through his
temporarily baser one, and he replied:
“Oh, I s’pose not, but I haven’t got the pleasant look the
photographers tell you to put on. Aren’t you afraid I’ll break your
camera?”
The answer was a quick snap and then the young man slung the camera
over his shoulder and stepping out on the tree trunk slipped down to a
seat beside Roy.
“You have a very cozy retreat here,” he remarked, “how’s the fishing?”
“I don’t know. To tell the truth I wasn’t thinking of my line at all
and I’m almost sorry I let you take that picture. I don’t see what you
wanted it for any way, I hope you won’t show it around much. You don’t
live in Marley, do you?”
“No.”
“I’m glad of that”
“Why?” with a smile.
“Because nobody I know will be apt to see the picture.”
“You’re quite a modest young man.”
“Oh, it isn’t that, but I must have looked so disagreeable at that
particular moment. At least I must have done so if my looks were
anything like my feelings.”
“No, if I remember rightly you were smiling at the instant I pressed
the button. You know you were saying something about fearing you would
break the camera, and a smile usually goes with that remark.”
Roy looked up quickly. The stranger was an odd one. He had a queer way
of putting things. Roy began to be interested.
“Have you taken many pictures around here?”
“Quite a number. It’s a very pretty place.”
“Isn’t it?”
“That bridge quite adds to the attractiveness of the landscape. In fact
that is the reason I am here. I was coming through on the train and as
we crossed, the prospect of this little valley was so tempting that I
decided to stop off and explore. I am very glad I did now, for it gave
me the added pleasure of meeting you.”
“That sounds as though you were talking to a girl,” said Roy.
“Does it? Well, as I am particularly fond of boys I suppose I may be
allowed to say the same sort of things to them.”
“You’re fond of boys? That’s queer. I didn’t know any one liked boys
except their mothers and now and then a girl or two.”
Roy laughed a little as he added this last, and the stranger joined in
heartily.
“You’re very frank,” he remarked; “but that’s what boys usually are,
and it’s one of the reasons I like them. They generally say right out
just what they think.”
“What’s another reason?”
The man with the camera hesitated an instant before replying. Then he
said:
“Well, I’m going to be frank, too. Another reason I like boys is
because I find them useful to me.”
“Useful to you?” repeated Roy, perplexed.
“Yes, as a matter of study. You see, I write about them sometimes.”
“Why, are you an author?”
Roy turned full around on the log as he put the question, his face all
aglow with animation.
“I suppose that’s what I must call myself even if I’m not a
particularly famous one.”
“Please tell me the names of some of your books. Perhaps I’ve read
them.”
The young man smiled at his companion’s eagerness and mentioned a story
which had been Roy’s Christmas present two years before.
“Did you write that?” he exclaimed. “Why, then you are Mr. Charles
Keeler!”
“Yes, I am Mr. Keeler. I suppose you are disappointed in me. Most
people are when they see the people who write books they have read.”
“That was a splendid story,” Roy drew in a long breath before he made
this reply. He was still looking at Mr. Keeler as if he could not yet
quite comprehend the thing. “I’m awfully glad to meet you and I’d like
to shake hands.”
“With the greatest of pleasure. I’m very glad you liked my book; I know
you wouldn’t say so if you didn’t. That’s where boys are superior to
grown people. They are almost always sincere in the expression of their
opinions.”
“Do you know I’ve never seen an author before?” went on Roy, who had
wound up his line and had given himself over to a full enjoyment of
this unexpected opportunity. “I don’t see how you do it. I hate to
write compositions at school. Nearly every boy I know does. Did you?”
“Yes, when I had to write on subjects that were assigned by the teacher
I used to count the lines then just the same as the rest of the
fellows. But when they let me write a story I didn’t mind.”
“I don’t see how you can. I should think you’d never know what to say
next.”
Mr. Keeler smiled, showing his white teeth which contrasted so strongly
with the deep tan on his complexion.
“Oh, that all comes when you have your scheme arranged,” he said. “But
of course you have to possess a natural taste for the work. You can’t
suddenly decide that you would like to be an author and then study for
it as you might learn to be a carpenter or a mason.”
“Oh, it’s like poets, then, who are ‘born, not made,’” returned Roy.
“Precisely, and that being the case it comes natural to write, although
there is a great deal of hard work about it.”
“You said you studied boys. How do you mean?”
“Well, take yourself for example. When I saw you sitting here fishing I
wanted your picture so I could look at it some day and perhaps make up
a story about you.”
“A story about me!” exclaimed Roy. Then he added in a sober tone, “I
don’t believe you could make up a more wonderful story than something
that has really happened to me.”
“Is that so? I remember now you said you were very much disturbed over
something that you thought would make you look disagreeable.”
“Yes, I came down here because I was at odds with myself and everybody
else, I wonder what you’d do with a hero who was just in my position.
I’ve half a mind to tell you all about it. You don’t know who I am, so
it won’t matter. Do you live in Philadelphia?”
“No, in New York just at present.”
“Good, then I believe I’ll tell you, but you must promise you won’t use
it in a book unless I tell you you can.”
“Here’s my hand on it,” and once more hands were clasped over the tree
trunk.
“And you must promise, too, to believe everything I tell you. Some of
it will seem pretty steep.”
“Oh, well, you know, that fact is stranger than fiction, so don’t worry
about that.”
“I won’t tell you everything,” began Roy, with a quick glance up at the
trestle, “but first I’ll have to go back a little and say that almost
as far back as I can remember we’ve lived in that house you can see
down yonder with the peaked roof. We had only about enough money to
keep us comfortable, for father died when I was a little fellow, and
there were five of us children. But we had good times and I was looking
forward to the future when I would be a man and Rex and I—that’s my
twin brother—could give mother some of the luxuries with what we should
earn, for I expected that by that time Sydney would be married and have
a home of his own. You’re not bored listening to all this, are you?
There’s a more exciting part coming?”
“I never was so absorbed in a story in my life, my dear fellow. Go on,
please.”
“Well, over yonder, not far from the end of the trestle, lived an old
man—but never mind the name. At any rate he was sort of a miser, or
rather he had lots of money which he never spent and when he died he
left it all to my mother.”
“You’ve left something out I think,” interrupted Mr. Keeler, and there
was a smile about the corners of his mouth that caused Roy to flush
deeply.