PART III

I

SIXTEEN MILES TO BOSWELL'S

"One passenger off the five-thirty, coming up the hill," announced Sue

Boswell, peering eagerly out of the Inn's office window. "That makes

nine for supper. I'll run and tell mother."

"Nine--poor child," murmured Tom Boswell, behind the desk. "That's

certainly a great showing for a summer hotel, on the fifteenth day of

July. If we don't do better in August--the game's up."

He stared out of the window at the approaching guest, who, escorted by

Tom's brother Tim, was climbing the road toward Boswell's Inn at a pace

which indicated no pressing anxiety to arrive. As the pair drew nearer,

Tom could see that the stranger was a rather peculiar-looking person. Of

medium height, as thin as a lath, with a nearly colourless face in which

was set a pair of black eyes with dark circles round them, the man had

somewhat the appearance of an invalid; yet an air of subdued nervous

energy about him in a measure offset the suggestion of ill-health. He

was surveying Boswell's Inn as he approached it in a comprehensive way

which seemed to take in every feature of its appearance.

Across the desk in the small lobby the newcomer spoke curtly. "Good

room and a bath? I want an absolutely quiet room where I get no

kitchen noises or ballroom dancing. Windows with a breeze--if you've

got such a thing."

"I can't give you the bath," Tom answered regretfully, "because we

haven't got one that goes with any room in the house. But you can have

plenty of hot and cold, in cans. The room will be quiet, all right. And

we always have a breeze up here, if there is one anywhere in the world.

Shall I show you?"

"Lead on," assented the stranger. He had not offered to register, though

Tom had extended to him a freshly dipped pen.

"He's going to make sure first," thought Tom, recognizing a sign of the

experienced traveller. He led the way himself, feeling, for some

reason, unwilling to hand young Tim the key and allow him to exploit the

rooms. As they mounted the stairs, Tom was rapidly considering. He had

brought along three keys--rather an unusual act on his part. It was hard

to say why he felt it necessary to bestow any special attention upon

this guest, who certainly was by no means of an imposing appearance, and

whose hot-weather dress was as careless as his manner.

He opened the door of the first room, and the stranger looked in

silently. "I'll show you another before you decide," said Tom hurriedly,

without waiting for a comment.

This was not his best empty room, and he felt somehow that the man who

wanted a room with a bath and a breeze knew it. He led the way on along

the hall to a corner room in the front. This was his second best. Tom

always preferred to reserve his choicest for a chance millionaire or a

possible wealthy society lady--though Heaven knew that, during the six

weeks the Inn had been open, no guest distantly resembling one or the

other of those desirable types had approached the little mountain

hostelry.

"Anything better?" inquired the thin man, his extraordinarily quick

glance covering every detail of the room like lightning, as Tom felt.

"Sure--if you want the bridal suit." Tom pronounced it proudly, as it

were a claw-hammer and white waistcoat.

"Bring her on."

Tom marched ahead to the two rooms opening on the little balcony above

the side porch, a balcony which belonged to the "bridal suite" alone,

and which commanded the finest view into the very heart of the mountains

that the house afforded. Seeing his guest--after one look around the

spotless room with its pink and white furnishings, and into the small

dressing-room beyond--stride toward the outer door, Tom threw it wide.

The guest stepped out on to the balcony. Here he pulled off his hat,

which he had not before removed, and let the breeze--for there was

unquestionably a breeze, even on this afternoon of a day which had been

one of the hottest the country had known--drift refreshingly against his

damp brow. The zephyr was strong enough even to lift slightly the thick

locks of black hair which lay above the white forehead.

"Price for this?" asked the stranger, in his abrupt way, turning back

into the room.

Tom mentioned it--with a little inward hesitation. The family had

differed a good deal on the question of prices for these best rooms. In

his opinion that settled upon for the bridal suite was almost

prohibitively high. Not a guest yet but had turned away with a sigh. For

a moment he had been tempted to reduce it, but he had promised the

others to stick by the decision at least through July. So he mentioned

the price firmly.

The guest glanced sharply at him as he did so. There was a queer little

contraction of the stranger's thin upper lip. Then he said: "I'll take

'em--for the night, and you may hold 'em for me till to-morrow night.

Tell you then whether I'll stay longer."

Tom understood, of course, that it was now a question of a satisfactory

table. But here he knew he was strong. Mother Boswell's cooking--there

was none better obtainable. He was already in a hurry to prove to this

laconic stranger who demanded the best he had of everything, including

breezes, that in the matter of food Boswell's Inn could satisfy the

most exacting. Not in elaborately dressed viands of rare kitchen

product, of course--that was not to be expected off here. But in

temptingly cooked everyday food, and in certain extras which were Mother

Boswell's specialties, and which the few people now in the Inn called

for with ever-increasing zest--though they seldom deigned to send any

special word of praise to the anxious cook--Boswell's needed to ask

forbearance of nobody.

"I'll send your stuff up right away," said Tom, as the other man cast

his straw hat upon a chair and went over to a washstand, where hung

several snowy towels. "Have some hot water?"

"Yes--and iced."

"All right." Tom was off on the jump. It was certainly something to have

rented the bridal suite even for the night, but he felt more than

ordinarily curious to know who his guest was.

"Might be a travelling man," he speculated, when he had given Tim his

orders, "though he doesn't exactly seem like one. But he looks like a

fellow who's used to getting what he wants."

When the new guest came downstairs, at the peal of a gong through the

quiet house, Tom saw him cast one keen-eyed glance in turn at each of

the other occupants of the lobby, as they clustered about the door of

the dining-room. Seven of these were women, and of that number at least

five were elderly. Of the two younger ladies, neither presented any

special attractiveness beyond that of entire respectability. The eighth

guest was a man--a middle-aged man who was reading a book and who

carried the book into the dining-room with him, where he continued to

read it at his solitary table.

Tom Boswell was at the elbow of the latest arrival as he entered the

dining-room, a long, low, but airy apartment, as spotless and shining in

its way as the bedroom upstairs had been. There was no head waiter, and

Tom himself piloted the new guest to a small table by a window, looking

off into the mountains on the opposite side of the house from that of

the bridal suite. The women boarders were all behind him, the solitary

man just across the way at a corresponding small table. Certainly the

proprietor of Boswell's Inn possessed that great desideratum for such

an official--tact.

Sue Boswell, aged fifteen, in a blue-and-white print frock and white

apron so crisp that one could not discern a wrinkle in them, waited on

the new guest. She did not ask him what he would have, nor present to

him a card from which to select his meal. She brought him first a small

cup of chicken broth, steaming hot; and though he regarded this at first

as if he had no appetite whatever, after the first tentative sip he went

on to the bottom of the cup. When this was gone, Sue placed before him a

plate of corned-beef hash, an alluring pinkness showing beneath the

gratifying upper coat of brown. A small dish of cucumbers--thin, iced

cucumbers, with a French dressing--accompanied the hash; and with these

he was offered hot rolls so small and delicate and crisp that, after

cautiously sampling the butter with what seemed a fastidious palate, the

guest took to eating rolls as if he had seldom found anything so well

worth consuming.

Something made of red raspberries and cream followed, and then half a

large cantaloupe, its golden heart filled with crushed ice, was placed

before him. Last appeared a cup of amber coffee. As the guest tasted

this beverage, a look of complete satisfaction overspread his pale face,

and he drained the cup clear and asked for more.

Presently he strolled out into the lobby. Here Tom awaited him behind

the desk. The hotel register was open, and Tom's fingers suggestively

held a pen. The guest obeyed the hint. At an inn so small, it certainly

would be a pity for any guest not to add his name to the short list.

For it was a very short list. Although a full month had gone by since

the first arrival had written her name, the bottom of the page had not

been quite reached when this latest one scratched his in characters

which looked quite as much like Arabic as English. When Tom came to

examine the name later, he made it out to be Perkins, though it might

quite as easily have been Tompkins, or Judson, or any other name which

had an elevated letter somewhere in the middle. The initials were quite

indecipherable. But Perkins it turned out to be, for when Tom

tentatively addressed the newcomer by that appellation there was no

correction made, and he continued to respond whenever so accosted.

Mr. Perkins spent the evening smoking upon the porch, his head turned

toward the mountains. The next morning, when he had eaten a breakfast

which included some wonderful browned griddle-cakes and syrup--another

of the Inn's specialties--he strolled away into the middle distance and

was observed by various of the guests, from time to time, perched about

among the rocks, in idle attitudes.

"He's a queer duck," observed Tom in the kitchen that day, describing

Mr. Perkins to his mother. Mrs. Boswell seldom appeared beyond her

special domain--that of the kitchen--but left the rest of the

housekeeping to her daughters Bertha and Sue; the management of the Inn

to Tom and Tim. "Silent as an owl. Seems to like his food--nothing

strange about that. He doesn't act sick, exactly, but tired, or bored,

or used up, somehow. Eyes like coals and sharper than a ferret's. I

can't make him out. He won't talk to anybody, except now and then a word

or two to Mr. Griffith. Never looks at the ladies, but I tell you they

look at him. Every one of 'em has a different notion about him. Anyhow,

he's taken the bridal suit for two weeks. Goes down to the post-office

for his mail--gave particular orders not to have it sent up here. That's

kind of funny, isn't it? Oh, I meant to tell you before: he's paid for

his rooms a week in advance."

"It helps a little," said his sister Bertha. She was twenty-five years

old, and if any one of this family had the responsibility of the success

of Boswell's Inn heavily and anxiously at heart, it was Bertha. "But it

can't make up the difference. Here's July half over, and not a dozen

people in the house. What can be the matter? Isn't everything all

right?"

"Sure it's all right," insisted Tom. "We just haven't got known,

that's all."

"But how are we going to get known, if nobody comes? Our advertisement

in the city papers costs dreadfully, and it doesn't seem to bring

anybody."

"Now see here," said Tom firmly, "don't you go to getting discouraged.

This is our first season. We can't expect to do much the first season.

We're prepared for that."

But he realized, quite as clearly as his sister, that they had not been

prepared for so complete a failure as they were making. Boswell's Inn

stood only sixteen miles away from a large city, a great Western

railroad centre, into which, early and late, thousands of tourists were

pouring. The road out into the mountains was a good one, the trip easy

enough for the owners of motor cars, of whom the city held enough to

make a continuous procession all the way if only they could be headed in

the right direction. But how to head them? That was what Tom couldn't

figure out.

On the third evening after Mr. Perkins's arrival, Tom, strolling

gloomily out upon the porch to see if any one was lingering there to

prevent his closing up, discovered Perkins sitting alone, smoking. There

had not been a new arrival that day; worse, one of the elderly ladies

had gone away. She had departed reluctantly, but her absence counted

just the same, and Tom was missing her as he had never expected to miss

any elderly lady with iron-gray curls and a cast in one eye.

"Nice night," observed Tom to Mr. Perkins.

"First-class."

"Getting cooled off a bit up here?"

"Pretty well."

"Are, you--having everything you want?"

Tom asked the question with some diffidence. It was a matter of regret

with him that he couldn't afford yet to put young Tim into buttons, but

without them he was sure the lad made as alert a bellboy and porter as

could be asked.

"Nothing to complain of."

Tom wished Mr. Perkins wouldn't be so taciturn. The proprietor of the

Inn That Couldn't Get a Start was feeling so blue to-night that speech

with some one besides his depressed family was almost a necessity. He

couldn't talk with the women; Mr. Griffith, though kindly enough, had

his nose forever buried in a book. Perkins looked as if he could talk if

he would, and have something to say, too. Tom tried to think of an

observation which would draw this silent man out. But quite suddenly,

and greatly to Tom's surprise, Mr. Perkins began to draw Tom out. Even

so, his questions were like shots from a gun, so brief and to the point

were they.

"Doing any advertising?" broke the silence first, from a corner of the

thin mouth. Perkins's cigar had been shifted to the opposite corner. He

did not look at Tom, but continued to gaze off toward a certain curious

effect of moonlight against the rocky sides of the canyon.

"We have a card in all the city papers."

"Any specials? Write-ups?"

"Well, this is our first season, and we didn't feel as if we could

afford to pay for that."

"No pulls, eh?"

"You mean----?"

"No friends among the newspaper men?"

"I don't know one. They don't seem to come up here. I wish they would."

"Ever ask one?"

"I don't know any," repeated Tom.

A short laugh, more like a grunt, was Perkins's reply. Tom didn't see

what there was to laugh at in the misfortune of having no acquaintance

among the writing fellows. He waited eagerly for the next question. It

was worth a good deal to him merely to have this outsider show a spark

of interest in the fortunes of Boswell's Inn.

"When did you open up?" It came just as he feared Perkins was going to

drop the subject.

"The third of June."

"Own the house?"

"No--lease it, cheap. It's an old place, but we put all we could afford

into freshening it up."

"Cook a permanent one?"

The form of the question perplexed Tom for an instant, but it presently

resolved itself, and he was grinning as he replied: "Sure she is. It's

my mother. Do you like her cooking?"

"A-1."

Ah, Tom would tell his mother that! The young man flushed slightly in

the darkness of the porch. It was almost the first compliment that had

been paid her, and she worked like a slave, too.

"Little waitress your sister?"

"Yes. Sue's young, but we think she does pretty well."

"Delivers the goods. Housekeeper a member of the family, too?"

"Yes--and Tim's my brother. Oh, it's all in the family. The only

trouble is----" he hesitated.

"Lack of patronage?"

"We can't keep open much longer if things don't improve." The moment the

words were out Tom regretted them. He didn't know how he had come to

speak them. He hadn't meant to give this fact away. Certainly there had

been nothing particularly sympathetic in the tone of Perkins's choppy

questions. But the other man's next words knocked his regrets out of his

mind in a jiffy.

"Could you entertain a dozen men at supper to-morrow night if they came

in a bunch without warning?"

"Give us the chance!"

"Chance might happen--better be prepared. I expect to be away over

to-morrow night myself, but have the tip that a crowd may be coming out

to sample the place. It may be a mistake--don't know."

"We'll be ready. Would they come by train?"

"Don't ask me--none of my picnic. Merely overheard the thing suggested."

And Perkins, rising, cast away the close-smoked stub of his cigar.

"Good-night," said he, carelessly enough, and strolled in through the

wide hall of the old stone house. Tom looked after him as he mounted the

stairs. The young innkeeper's spirits had gone up with a bound. A dozen

men to supper! Well--he thought they could entertain them. He would go

and tell his mother and Bertha on the instant; the prospect would cheer

them immensely. He wondered how or where Perkins had overheard this

rumour. At the post-office, most likely. It was a gossipy place, the

centre of the tiny burg at the foot of the mountain, an eighth of a mile

away, where a dozen small shops and half a hundred houses strung along

the one small street, at the end of which the two daily trains made

their half-minute stops.

* * * * *

The dozen men had come and gone. There were fourteen of them, to be

exact, and they had climbed out of a couple of big touring cars with

sounds of hilarity which made the elderly ladies jump in their chairs.

They had swarmed over the place as if they owned it, had talked and

laughed and joked and shouted, all in a perfectly agreeable way which

woke up Boswell's as if it were in the centre of somewhere instead of

off in the mountains. They had scrawled fourteen vigorous scrawls upon

the register and made it necessary to turn the page, this of itself

affording the clerk a satisfaction quite out of proportion to the

apparent unimportance of the incident. Then they had gone gayly in to

supper, had sat about two stainless tables close by the open windows,

and had been waited upon by both Sue and Tim in such alert fashion that

their plates arrived almost before they had unfurled their napkins.

Out in the kitchen, crimson-cheeked and solicitous, Mrs. Boswell had

sent in relays of broiled chicken, young and tender, browned as only

artists of her rank can brown them, flanked by potatoes cooked in a way

known only to herself. These were two of her "specialties," which the

elderly ladies were accustomed to enjoy without mentioning it. Pickles

and jellies such as the fourteen men had tasted only in childhood

accompanied these dishes, and the little hot rolls came on in piles

which melted away before the delighted attacks of the hungry guests; so

that the kitchen itself became alarmed, and cut the elderly ladies a

trifle short, at which complaints were promptly filed, though it was the

first time such a shortage had occurred.

Other toothsome dishes followed and were partaken of with such zest and

so many frank expressions of approval that Sue and Tim carried to the

kitchen reports which forced their mother to ask them to stop, lest she

lose her head. When the amber coffee with a fine cheese and crisp

toasted wafers ended the meal, the guests were in such a state of

satisfaction that Tom, though he did not know it, had acquired with them

his first "pull."

He did not know it--not then. He only knew that they were very cordial

with him, asking him a good many interested questions, and that one

requested to be shown rooms, remarking that his wife and children might

like to run out for a little while before the summer was over. Most of

them looked back at the Inn as the automobiles bore them away, and one

waved his cigar genially at Tom standing on the top step.

He was standing on the top step again the next morning when Mr. Perkins

returned. Tom was wishing Perkins had been there the night before, to

see confirmed the truth of the rumour he had reported.

"Well, we had the crowd here last night," was Tom's greeting, as

Perkins's sharp black eyes looked up at him from the bottom step.

"So I see." Perkins held up a morning paper. The inevitable cigar was in

his mouth. His face indicated no particular interest. He went along into

the house as Tom grasped the paper. So he saw! What did Perkins mean by

that? It couldn't be that any of that party of men had, unsolicited,

taken the trouble to----

But they had, or one of them had. In a fairly conspicuous position on

one of the local pages of the best city daily was an item of at least a

dozen lines setting forth the fact that a party of prominent men,

including several newspaper men, had taken supper the night before at

Boswell's Inn, Mount o' Pines, and had found that place decidedly

attractive. The paragraph stated that such a supper was seldom found at

summer hotels, added that the air and the view were worth a long trip to

obtain when the city was sweltering with heat, and ended by speaking of

the prime condition of the roads leading to the Inn. Altogether, it was

such an item as Tom had often longed to see, and the reading of it went

to his head. When, ten minutes later, Tim, coming up from the

post-office with the mail and another of the morning papers, excitedly

called Tom's attention to a second paragraph headed, "Have You Had a

Supper at Boswell's Inn?" Tom became positively delirious.

"It pays to set it up to a bunch like that," was Perkins's comment when

Tom showed him this second free advertisement.

"But I didn't treat them. They paid their bills," cried the young host.

"Charge your usual price?"

"Sure. We didn't have anything extra--except the cheese. Tim drove ten

miles for that."

"Usual price was all the treat those fellows needed."

"Do you mean you don't think I charge enough?" Tom's eyes opened wide.

He had felt as if he were robbing those men when he counted up the sum

total.

"Ever dine at the Arcadia?--or the Princess?"

"No."

"They do."

Tom did not know the prices at these imposing popular hotels in the

nearby city, but he supposed they were high. He felt as if he were the

greenest innkeeper who ever invited the patronage of city guests.

"Would you advise me to put up the price?" Tom asked presently, with

some hesitation.

Perkins glanced at him out of those worn, brilliant, black eyes of his,

which looked as if they had seen more of the world than Tom's ever would

see in the longest life he could live, though Perkins himself could

hardly be over forty, perhaps not quite that.

"Not yet, son," said he. "By and by--yes. But keep up the quality

now--and then."

That evening a young man, whom Tom recognized as one of the party of the

night before, the one who had waved to him as he had driven away,

appeared again. He came in a runabout this time and brought two women,

who proved to be his mother and sister. The young man himself--Mr.

Haskins--smiled genially at Tom, and said by way of explanation:

"I liked your place so well I brought them up to see if my fairy tales

were true."

Upon which Tom naturally did his best to make the fairy tales seem true,

and thought, by the signs he noted, that he had succeeded.

During the following week three or four others of the men of the

original fourteen came up to Boswell's or sent small parties. Evidently

the flattering paragraphs in the two dailies had also made some

impression on people eager to get away from the intense heat of a season

more than ordinarily trying. They found the air stirring upon the

porches and through the rooms at the Inn; and they found--which was, of

course, the greater attraction--a table so inviting with appetizing

food, and an unpretentious service so satisfactory, that mouth-to-mouth

advertising of the little new resort, that most-to-be-desired means of

becoming known, began, gradually but surely, to tell.

Strange to say, several more paragraphs now appeared: brief, crisp

mention of the simple but perfect cooking to be had for the short drive

of sixteen miles over the best of roads. These inevitably had their

effect, and at the end of the third week Tom declared to Perkins that

he was more than making expenses.

"Much more?" inquired that gentleman, his eyes as usual upon the view.

"Enough so we're satisfied and won't have to close up. Why, there's been

from one to three big autos here every day this week."

One of Perkins's short laughs answered this--Tom never could tell just

what that throaty chuckle indicated. Presently he found out.

"What you want, Boswell," said Perkins, removing his cigar--an unusual

sign of interest with him--"is a boom. I'd like to see you get it.

Gradual building up's all right, but quick methods pay better."

"A boom! How on earth are we to get a boom?" Tom felt a bit

disconcerted.

He had noticed for several days an increasing restlessness in the silent

guest. Instead of sitting quietly upon the porch with his cigar, Perkins

had fallen to pacing up and down with a long, nervous stride. At first

he had seemed moody and fatigued, now he had the appearance of a man

eager to be at something from which he was restrained.

When Tom asked his startled question about the desirable boom, Perkins

got out of his chair with one abrupt movement, threw one leg over the

porch rail, and began suddenly to talk. He could not be said really to

have talked before. Tom listened, his eyes sticking out of his head.

"Bunch of motoring fellows down in town--Mercury Club--want to get up an

auto parade, end with supper somewhere. Hotels at Lake Lucas, Pleasant

Valley, and half a dozen others all crazy to get 'em. Happen to know a

chap or two in town who could swing it out here for you if you cared to

make the bid, and could handle the crowd. Chance for you, if you want

it. Make a big thing of it--lanterns, bonfires, fireworks,

orchestra--regular blow-out."

Tom's breath came in gasps. "Why--why----" he stammered. "How could

we--how could we--afford----What----? How----?"

Perkins threw away the stub of his cigar, chewed to a pulp at the mouth

end. His eyes had an odd glitter. "I've what you might call a bit of

experience in that sort of thing," he said in a quiet tone which yet had

a certain edge of energy. "Going away next week, but might put this

thing through for you, if you cared to trust me."

"But--the money?" urged Tom.

"Willing to stand for that--pay me back, if you make enough.

Otherwise--my risk. Something of a gambler, I am. Club'll pay for the

fireworks--that's their show. Bonfires on the mountains around are easy.

Lanterns cheap. Get special terms on the music--friend of mine can.

Supper's up to you. Can you get extra help?"

"We can manage the supper," agreed Tom, his round cheeks deeply flushed

with excitement. "Say, you're--you're awfully kind. I don't know

why----"

Perkins vaulted over the porch rail. From the ground below he looked

back at Tom. For the first time since he had come to Boswell's Inn Tom

caught sight of the gleam of white teeth, as an oddly brilliant smile

broke out for an instant on the face which was no longer deadly white

but brown with tan. "Son," said Perkins, preparing to swing away down to

the post-office, "I told you I was a gambler. Gambler out of work's the

lamest duck on the shore. Game of booming the Inn interests me--that's

all."

Tom watched the lithe, slim figure in the distance for a minute before

he went in to break the plan to the force of Boswell's. "He's no

gambler," said he to himself, "or I couldn't trust him the way I do.

He's queer, but I don't believe he has any other motive for this than

wanting to help us."

With which innocent faith in the goodness of the man who had already

seen more of the world than Tom Boswell would ever see, he rushed in to

tell Bertha and the rest of his excited family the astounding talk he

had just had with Perkins.

* * * * *

"Mother Boswell, you've got to come out on the porch--just one

minute--and look."

"No, no, child, I can't. I----"

"Not where the folks are--just out on Mr. Perkins's balcony. He told me

to take you."

"But I can't leave----"

"Yes, you can. Everything's all right. Come--quick. The first autos are

coming--you can see 'em miles off."

With one glance about the kitchen, where two extra helpers were busy

with the last preparations, over which Mrs. Boswell had kept a

supervising eye to the smallest detail, herself working harder than

anybody, the mistress of the place suffered herself to be led away. Up

the back stairs, through Mr. Perkins's empty rooms, out upon the

balcony, Sue hustled her mother, and then with one triumphant "There!"

swept an arm about the entire horizon.

"My goodness!" burst from the lady's lips, and she stood gazing,

transfixed.

At the foot of the mountainside, where lay the little village street

with its row of shops and houses, glowed a line of Chinese lanterns,

hung thickly along the entire distance. The winding road up to the Inn

was outlined by lanterns; the trees about the Inn held out long arms

dancing with the parti-coloured lights; the porch below, as could be

told by the rainbow tints thrown upon the ground beneath, was hung with

them from end to end.

"My goodness!" came again from Mrs. Boswell, in stupefied amazement.

"There must be a thousand of those things. How on earth----?"

But her ear was caught by a distant boom, and her eyes lifted to the

surrounding mountain heights. In a dozen different places bonfires

flashed and leaped, with an indescribable effect of beauty.

"They're firing dynamite up on West Peak!" explained Sue. "Jack

Weatherbee offered to do that. Tim's got boys at all those places to

keep up the fires--and put 'em out afterward. Oh, look!--now you can see

the parade beginning to show!"

Down upon the distant plain, across which lay the winding road out from

the city, one could discern a trail of light--thrown by many

searchlights--and make out its rapid advance. The sight moved Mrs.

Boswell instantly to action again.

"I must get back to the kitchen!" she cried, and vanished from the

balcony.

"If you could only see the Inn from outside!" Sue called after her, but

uselessly. Mrs. Boswell felt that the entire success of the "boom"

depended upon the kitchen. They might string lanterns from Boswell's to

Jericho, but if the supper shouldn't be good--the thought sent her down

the back stairs at a speed reckless for one of her years. But she

reached the bottom safely, or this story would never have been told.

The first cars in the procession came up the steep road with open

cut-outs. The bigger cars made nothing of it; the smaller ones got into

their low gears and ground a bit as they pulled. In fifteen minutes from

the first arrival, the wide plateau upon which the Inn stood looked like

an immense garage, cars of every description having been packed in

together at all angles. Up the Inn steps flowed a steady stream of

people: men in driving attire and motor caps; women in long coats and

floating veils, under which showed pretty summer frocks; a few children,

dressed like their elders in motoring rig, their faces eager with

interest in everything. In the hall, behind a screen of flags and

evergreen, the orchestra played merrily. It presently had to play its

loudest to be heard above the chorus of voices.

In less time than it takes to tell, every table in the airy dining-room,

lit by more Chinese lanterns and hung with streamers of bunting, was

filled. Reservations had been made by mail and telephone for the past

three days, and with a list in his hand Tom hurried about. He could

never have kept his head if it had not been for young Haskins at his

elbow. Haskins was secretary of the Mercury Club and knew everybody. He

was a genial fellow, and if anybody attempted to tell Tom that a mistake

had been made, and certain reservations should have been for the first

or second table, instead of the third, Haskins would cut in with a joke

and have the murmurer appeased and laughing in a trice.

As for Perkins--but where was Perkins? Up to the last minute before the

first car arrived, Perkins had been in evidence enough--in fact, he had

been everywhere all day, personally supervising every detail, working

like a fiend himself and inspiring everybody else to work, proving

himself the ablest of generals and a perfect genius at effective

decoration. The Inn, inside and out, was a fairyland of light and

colour--even the sated eyes of the city people, accustomed to every

trick of effect in such affairs, were charmed with the picturesque

quality of the scene. But now Tom could see nothing of Perkins

anywhere. Tim, hurriedly questioned, shook his head, also puzzled.

Late in the evening there came a moment when Tom could free himself long

enough to run up to Perkins's room. He was uneasy about his guest--and

friend--for that the stranger seemed to have become. Perkins certainly

didn't look quite strong--could he have overdone and be ill, alone in

his room? After one hasty knock, to which he got no answer, Tom turned

the knob. Through the open balcony door he saw a leg and shoulder--and

smelled the familiar fragrance of the special brand.

"Hello, son!" was Perkins's greeting.

"You're not sick?"

"Never. Things going O. K.?"

"Oh, splendid! Such a crowd--such a jolly crowd! But--why don't you come

down?"

"To help make things go?"

"No, no--to enjoy it. You've done enough. You must know some of these

people, and if you don't--it's worth something just to look at 'em. I

didn't know ladies dressed like that--under those things they wear in

the autos. Say, Mr. Perkins, the Lieutenant-Governor's here--and his

wife!"

"So?"

"Mr. Haskins thinks they want to stay all night. The lady hasn't been

sleeping well through the heat. Mr. Haskins says she's taken a fancy to

the Inn. But I haven't a really good room for 'em."

"Take mine."

Tom gasped. "Oh, no! Not yours--after all you've done----"

"Going to-morrow, you know. It doesn't matter where I hang up to-night.

Matters a good deal where Mrs. Lieutenant-Governor hangs up."

"But where----?"

"Anywhere. May sit up till morning, anyhow. Feel like it. Your show sort

of goes to my head."

"My show? Yours! But why on earth don't you come down and----?"

"By and by, son. Say, send me some clean linen and I'll see that this

room's in shape for the lady--girls all busy yet. Room swept yesterday.

My truck's packed. I'll have things ready in ten minutes."

Tom went downstairs feeling more than ever that his guest was an enigma.

But he was too busy to stop just then to think about it.

The hours went by. The guests talked and laughed, ate and promenaded.

They crowded the porch to watch the fireworks on the mountain; they

swept over the smooth space and the roadway in front of the Inn, looking

up at it and remarking upon the quaint charm of it, the desirability of

its location, its attractiveness as a resort. Tom heard one pretty girl

planning a luncheon here next week; he heard a group of men talking

about entertaining a visiting delegation of bankers up here at Boswell's

out of the heat.

Everywhere people were asking, "Why haven't we known about this?" and to

one and another Arthur Haskins, in Tom's hearing, was saying such things

as, "Just opened up. Jolly place, isn't it? Going to be the most popular

anywhere around. Deserves it, too."

"But is the table as good every day as it is to-night?" one skeptic

inquired.

"Better." Haskins might have been an owner of the place, he was so

prompt with his flattering statements. "First time I came up was with a

crowd of fellows. We took them unawares, and they served a supper that

made us smile all over. Their cook can't be beaten--and the service is

first-class."

It was over at last. But it was at a late hour that the first cars began

to roll away down the hill, and later still when the last got under way.

They carried a gay company, and the final rockets, spurting from West

Peak, flashed before the faces of people in the high good humour of

those who have been successfully and uniquely entertained.

The Lieutenant-Governor and his wife had gone to the pink and white

welcome of the bridal suite when Perkins at last came strolling

downstairs. Only Haskins's party remained in the flag-hung lobby, the

women sheathing themselves in veils, as their motor chugged at the porch

steps.

Haskins turned as Perkins crossed the lobby. He stared an instant, then

advanced with outstretched hand, smiling.

"Why, Mr. Parker," he said, "I didn't know you were here. Doctor Austin

was asking me to-day if I knew where you were. He seems to have got you

on his mind. He'll be delighted to see you. I'll call him--he's just

outside. He's with our party."

With an expression half dismayed, half amused, Perkins looked after the

Mercury Club's secretary as he darted to the outer door, where a big

figure in a motoring coat was pacing up and down.

Tom, leaning over the office desk, looked at Perkins. But Haskins had

called the man "Parker." What----?

The big figure in the motoring coat came hurriedly in at the doorway and

grasped the hand of Tom's guest. "Parker," he cried, "what are you doing

here? Are you responsible for this panjandrum to-night? Didn't I send

you off for an absolute rest?"

"Been obeying directions strictly, Doctor. I've lain around up here till

the grass sprouted under my feet. You haven't seen me here to-night,

have you?"

"No, but the thing looks like one of your managing."

"No interest in this place whatever. Never heard of it till I stumbled

on it." But Perkins's eyes were dancing.

"You're looking a lot better, anyhow. Come out here and meet Mrs.

Austin. I want to show her the toughest patient I ever had to pull loose

from his work."

The two went out upon the porch. Tom gazed at young Haskins, as the

latter looked at him with a smile.

"Did he engineer this part of the thing, too, Boswell?" questioned the

young man, interestedly.

"Sure, he did. But who is he?"

"Didn't you know who he was? That's so--you've called him Perkins all

along, but this is the first time I've seen him here, and I didn't put

two and two together. His letters and 'phones about this supper came

from in town somewhere. Why, he's Chris Parker, the biggest hotel man in

the country. Nobody like him--he'd make the deadest hotel in the

loneliest hamlet pay in a month. Head of all the hotel organizations you

can count. Most original chap in the world. Doctor Austin was telling me

to-night about ordering him off for a rest because he'd put such a lot

of nerve tension into his schemes he was on the edge of a bad breakdown.

Well, well, you're mighty lucky if you've got him backing you. No other

man on earth could have got the Mercury Club up here to-night--a place

they'd never heard of."

So Tom was thinking. He was still thinking it when the motor car shot

away down the hill with its load, the physician calling back at his

ex-patient: "Don't get going too soon again, Parker! So far, so good,

but don't----"

The last words were lost in a final boom from West Peak.

Tom went slowly out upon the porch, feeling embarrassed and uncertain.

How could he ever express his gratitude to this mighty man of valour?

"Perkins" was sitting, as usual, astride the porch rail, the red light

of his cigar glowing against the dark background of the mountains where

the bonfires were dying to mere sparks. He looked around as Tom

appeared, and grinned in a friendly way under the Chinese lanterns.

"Tough luck, to get caught at the last minute, eh?" he said.

"Mr. Per--Parker----" began Tom, and stopped.

The "biggest hotel man in the country" looked at the greenest young

innkeeper, and there was satisfaction in his bright black eyes.

"Not any thanks, son. Should have croaked in one week more if I couldn't

have worked off a few pounds of high pressure. This sort of thing to

me's like a game to a gambler--as I told you. Had to keep incog., or I'd

have had a dozen parties from town after me on one deal or another.

Thought I could put this little stunt through without giving myself

away--but came downstairs five minutes too soon. Went off pretty

well--eh? You'll have patronage after this, all right. No--no thanks, I

said. I'm under obligations to you for trusting me to run the thing.

It's saved my life!"

Well, if it were all a game, Tom thought, as he watched Mr. Christopher

Parker run lightly up the stairs, a few minutes later, it was certainly

a wondrous friendly one.

_And Boswell's Inn was now known to be only sixteen short motor miles

from town._

II

HONOUR AND THE GIRL

He lay back among the crimson pillows in his big chair, close beside the

fire, with his eyes on the burning logs. A tablet and pen lay in his

lap, and he had written a few paragraphs, but he was listening now to

certain sounds which came from below stairs: voices, laughter,

scurryings up and down the hall and staircase; then the slam of a heavy

door, the tuneful ring of sleighbells in a rapid _decrescendo_ down the

street, and absolute silence within the house. Three times in the last

fifteen minutes before the door closed somebody had looked in upon the

occupant of the big chair to say something like this:

"Oh, Jerry--sorry we couldn't spend Nan's last evening with you. Too bad

this wretched Van Antwerp dance had to come to-night--Christmas Eve,

too. Busy, aren't you, as usual? At work on those sketches of country

life in winter? You clever boy--who but you could make so much out of so

little? Anything we can do for you before we are off? Nan hates to go,

since it's the very last evening of her visit. She thought we all ought

to give up and stay with you, but we told her you disliked to be

'babied.' Well--good-night, old fellow. Don't write too late. You know

the doctor thinks plenty of sleep is part of your cure."

That was the sort of thing they had been saying to him for a year now--a

year. And he seemed no nearer health than when he had been sent home

from his gloriously busy, abounding life in New York, where he was

succeeding brilliantly, far beyond anybody's expectations--except those

of the few knowing ones who had recognized the genius in him in his

school and college days. But he had never given up. Invalided in body,

his mind worked unceasingly; and a certain part of the literary work he

had been doing he did still. He said it kept him from going off his

head.

When the stillness of the usually noisy house had become oppressive he

took up his tablet and pen again. He wrote a sentence or two--slowly;

then another--more slowly; and drew an impatient line through them all.

He tossed the tablet over to a table near at hand and sat staring into

the fire. Certain lines about his mouth grew deep.

A knock on his door roused him, and he realized that it had sounded

before. "Come in," he called, and the door opened and closed behind him.

An unmistakable sound, as of the soft rustle of delicate skirts, swept

across the floor and paused behind his chair. He drew himself up among

his pillows, and strained his neck to look over his shoulder. A young

face, full of life and colour, laughed down into his.

"You?" he said in an amazed breath. "_You?_ Why, Nan!"

He reached up one hand and took hers and drew her with his slight

strength around where he could see her. It did not take much strength.

She came, laughing still, and sweeping a graceful low bend before him.

"Don't ask me why," she said with a shake of her head. "I didn't want to

go. I knew I wouldn't go all the time I was dressing. But I dressed. I

knew I could argue with them better when I got this gown on. I think I

have rather a regal air in it, don't you?"

"I could tell better if you were not wearing that shapeless thing over

it."

"Oh, but I've taken off my gloves, and I can't stand bare arms and

shoulders here at home." She shrugged the shoulders under the thin

silken garment with which she had covered them.

"And you're not going to the Van Antwerps' at all?"

"Certainly not. I preferred to stay at home."

"Why?"

"I told you not to ask me why. But I suppose you won't talk about

anything else until you know."

She sat down opposite him before the fire, looking up at the great

branches of holly on the chimney-piece above, their scarlet berries

gleaming saucily among the rich green of their leaves. She reached up

and pulled off a spray; then she glanced at him. He was silently

surveying her. In her delicate blue gauzy gown she was something to

look at in the fire-glow.

"I wanted to spend my last evening here with you," she said.

He smiled back at her. "Three people looked in here this evening and

told me you thought you ought."

She answered indignantly: "I didn't say I ought. I didn't think it. I

wanted to. And I didn't want them to stay. That is why I let them all

array themselves before I refused to go."

He was still smiling. "Delicate flattery," he said, "adapted to an

invalid. You should never let an invalid think you pity him--at least

not a man-invalid who got knocked out while playing a vigorous game for

all it was worth."

"Jerry," she said, looking full at him out of a pair of eyes which were

capable of saying eloquent things quite by themselves, "do you think all

the hours I've spent with you in this month I've been visiting Hester

were spent from pity?"

"I hope not," he answered lightly. "I'm sure not. We've had some

pleasant times, haven't we?"

She turned from him without speaking, and, clasping her hands loosely

in front of her, bent forward and studied the fire. Presently she got up

and took a fresh log from the basket.

"Be careful," he warned, as she stooped to lay it in place. "Put it on

gently. The sparks might fly, and that cobweb dress of yours----"

She laid the log across the other half-burnt sticks, and started back

with a little cry as a dozen brilliant points of flame flew toward her.

"Don't do that again," he protested sternly, with nothing of the invalid

in his voice. "I don't like to see you do such things when I couldn't

stir to save you no matter what happened."

She stood looking down at him. "Jerry," she said, "I'll tell you why I

stayed to-night. I wanted to talk with you about something. I want your

help."

His eyes told her that he would give it if he could.

"Do you mind if I sit on a pillow here before the fire?" she asked,

bringing one from the couch. Jerry had plenty of pillows. Since his

breakdown every girl who had ever known him had sent him a fresh one.

"Somehow I can talk better," she explained.

She settled herself on her cushion, her blue skirts lying in light folds

about her, her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee.

"I always go straight to the point," she said. "I never know how to lead

artfully up to a thing. Jerry, you know I go to Paris in January, to do

some special work in illustrating?"

"Yes."

"I go with Aunt Elizabeth, and we shall live very quietly and properly,

and I shall not have any of the--trials--so many young women workers

have. My work will keep me very busy, and, I think, happy. I mean it

shall. But, Jerry--I want something. You know you have always known me,

because I was Hester's friend."

"Is this 'straight to the point'?" he asked, and there was a gleam of

fun in his eyes, though his lips were sober. But his interest was

unmistakable.

"Very straight. But we have never been special friends, you and I."

"Haven't we? I congratulated myself we had."

"Not what I mean by that word." She sat looking into the fire for some

little time, while he remained motionless, watching her, his eyes shaded

by his hand. At length she said very earnestly, still staring fireward,

while her cheeks took on a slight access of colour:

"I want to feel I have a friend--one friend--a real one, whom I leave

behind me here--who will understand me and write to me, and whom I can

count on--differently from the way I count on other friends."

He was studying her absorbedly. There came into his eyes a peculiar look

as she made her frank statement.

"Then you haven't just that sort of a friend among all the men you know

at home?"

"Not a single one. And I miss it. Not because I have ever had it," she

added quickly.

He was silent for a little while, then he said very quietly: "You are

offering me a good deal, Nan. Do you realize just how much?

Friendship--such friendship--means more to me now than it ever did

before."

"Does it?" she asked with equal quietness. "I'm glad of that."

"Because," he went on gravely, "I realize that it is the only thing I

can ever have, and it must take the place of all I once--hoped for."

"Oh, why do you say that?" she cried impetuously.

"Since you are to be my friend now--my special friend--I can tell you

what Doctor McDonough told me just two days ago. May I tell you that? I

have told and shall tell no one else. Before you take the vows"--he

smiled grimly--"you should know what you are accepting."

"Tell me."

"He said I might be better--much better--but I could never hope to

be--my old self again."

"Oh, Jerry! Oh, Jerry!" Her voice was almost a sob. She turned about and

reached up both hands to him, clasping his with a warm and tender

pressure.

"Is that what your friendship means?" he asked, holding her hands

closely and looking down steadily into her eyes while his own grew

brilliant. "If it does--it is going to be something a man might give up

a good deal for."

"Oh, how can you take such a cruel disappointment so?" she breathed.

"And to hear it just at Christmas, too. I've said all along that you

were just the bravest person I ever knew. But now!--Jerry, I'm not

worthy to be your friend."

"Ah, I'll not let you take back what you offered me. If you knew how

I've wanted to ask it----"

"Have you, really?" she asked so eagerly that he turned his head away

for a moment and set his lips firmly together as if he feared he might

presently be tempted to go beyond those strait boundaries of friendship.

Somehow from the lips of such a girl as Nan this sort of thing was the

most appealing flattery; at the same time it was unquestionably sincere.

"So you will seal the compact? Think it over carefully. I can never give

you the strong arm a well man could."

"If you will teach me to acquire the sort of strength you have learned

yourself," she said--and there was a hint of mistiness about those eyes

of hers--"you will have given me something worth while."

Presently they were talking of her journey, to be begun on the morrow;

of her work, in which she had come in the last year to remarkable

success; of his work--the part which he could do and would continue to

do, he said, with added vigour. They talked quietly but earnestly, and

each time she looked up into his face she saw there a new brightness,

something beyond the mere patient acceptance of his hard trial.

"Jerry," she said all at once, breaking off in the midst of a discussion

of certain phases of the illustrator's art, "you don't know how suddenly

rich I feel. All the while you were doing such wonderful, beautiful

things with your pen in New York and being made so much of, I was

thinking, 'What an inspiration Jerrold Fullerton would be as a real

friend.' But all the girls were----"

He laughed. "They won't trouble you, now."

"But your friendship is worth more now than then."

He shook his head.

"It is--because _you_ are more than you were then."

"I'm a mere wreck of what I was, Nan." He did not say it bitterly, but

he could not quite keep the sadness out of the uncompromising phrase.

She looked up at him, studying his face intently. It had always been a

remarkably fine face, and on it the suffering of the past year had done

a certain work which added to its beauty. He did not look ill, but the

refinement which illness sometimes lends to faces of a somewhat too

strongly cut type had softened it into an exceeding charm. Out of it the

eyes shone with an undaunted spirit which told of hidden fires.

"I am glad a share in the wreckage falls to me," she said softly.

"Nan," he told her, while his lips broke irresistibly into a smile

again, "I believe you are deliberately trying to burn a sweet incense

before me to-night. Just how fragrant it is to a fellow in my shape I

can't tell you. You would never do it if I were on my feet, I appreciate

that; but I'm very grateful just the same."

"I'd like," she said with eyes which fell now to the hands folded in her

lap--and the droop of her head as he saw it, with the turned-away

profile cut like an exquisite silhouette against the fire, was burnt

into his memory afterward--"to have you remember this Christmas Eve--as

I shall."

"Remember it!"

"Shall you?"

"Shall I!"

"Ah--who is deliberately trying to say nice things now?" But she said it

rather faintly.

He lay back among his pillows with a long breath. "So you go to-morrow

morning?"

"Early--at six o'clock. You will not see me. And I must go now. See, it

is after eleven. Think of their making me go out this evening when I

must be up at five and travel the next forty-eight hours. On Christmas

Day, too. Isn't that too bad? But that's the price of my staying over to

spend Christmas Eve with Jerry Fullerton--like the foolish girl that I

am."

She rose and stood before him.

"Would you mind slipping off that--domino?" he requested. "I'd like to

see you just as all the other fellows would have seen you if you had

gone to the Van Antwerps'."

Smiling, and flushing a little, she drew off the silken garment, and the

firelight bathed her softly rounded shoulders and arms in a rosy glow.

He looked at her silently for a minute, until she said again that she

must go, and took a step toward him, smiling down at him and holding out

both hands.

"I don't know how I can spare my friend, when I've just found her," he

said, searching her face with an intentness she found it difficult to

bear. "I suppose I ought not to ask it, but--it's Christmas Eve, you

know--and--you'll give me one more thing to remember--won't you, Nan?"

She bent, like a warm-hearted child, and laid her lips lightly upon his

forehead, but he caught her hands.

"Is that the proper degree for friendship--and you feel that more would

be too much?"

She hesitated; then, as his grasp drew her, she stooped lower, blushing

beautifully, to give the kiss upon his lips. But it was not the breath

of a caress she would have made it. Invalids are sometimes possessed of

unsuspected reserves of strength.

She turned away then in a pretty confusion, said, "Good-night," and

went slowly toward the door.

"Oh, come back!" he cried. "Tell me--you will write often?"

"Oh, yes; every--month."

"Month? Won't you write every mail?"

"Oh, Jerry!"

"Every week, then?"

"Will you?"

"I will, whether you do or not."

"Your ideas of friendship----"

"Are they too exacting?"

"No-o," she admitted, as if reluctantly. She was behind him now, her

hands clasped together tightly, her eyes glowing with the light of a

frightened purpose which was over-mastering her. He tried to turn and

see her, but she defeated this.

"Please come here," he begged.

She was silent, trying to breathe more naturally.

"Please----"

"What good will it do?" she asked at last. "I shall have to go, and

you--won't----"

"Won't--what?"

She crept up close behind his chair.

"--_say it_," she whispered.

He reached out his hand with a commanding gesture. "Nan, come here.

Say--what?"

She bent over the back of his chair and laid a soft, trembling hand on

each side of his face.

"Please say it," she breathed.

He seized her hands and drew them to his lips. "Nan, you are tempting me

almost beyond my power. Do you mean to tempt me? Are you trying to?"

She leaned low, so that her breath swept his cheek, and whispered,

"Yes."

"Oh, my God," he groaned. "Nan--are you insane? What if I say it--then

how much worse will it be? I can bear it better as it is now--and

you--can't mean it."

"_Say it!_" came the breath in his ear again.

He was silent for a while, breathing heavily. Presently he began to

speak in a quiet tone whose vibrations showed, nevertheless, the most

rigid self-control. He still held her hands, resting there upon his

shoulders, but he made no further effort to see her face.

"Nan," he said, "this friendship you give me is the dearest thing I ever

knew. It is worth everything to me. Let me keep it while you go away

for your year of work. Be the warmest friend to me you know how, and

write me everything about yourself. Meanwhile--keep your heart free

for--the man will surely come to claim it some day--a man who will be

worthy of you in every way, soul, mind, and--body. I shall be happy in

your----"

Her hand pulled itself away from his, and was laid with a gentle

insistence upon his mouth.

"Jerry," she said very softly, "that's enough--please. I understand.

That had to be said. I knew you would say it. It's what you think you

ought to say, of course. But--it's said now. You needn't repeat it. For

it's not the thing--I'm waiting for you to say."

"Nan----"

"Would you make a poor girl do it all?" she questioned, with a

suggestion of both laughter and tears in her voice.

"But, Nan----"

"I'm not used to it," she urged. "It's very embarrassing. And I ought to

be asleep this minute, getting ready for my early start. I'm not quite

sure that I shall sleep if you say it"--her voice dropped to a whisper

again--"but I'm sure I shall not if--you--don't."

"My dear girl----"

"That's hardly warm enough, is it--under the circumstances--when you

won't see me for a year? Jerry--a whole year----"

"Nan--for the love of Heaven come around here!"

"Not so much for the love of Heaven as----"

"No--for the love of you--you--_you!_"

She came at last--and then she saw his eyes. But she could not meet them

after the first glance. She lay in his arms, held there by a grasp so

strong that it astonished her beyond measure. So, for a time; then he

began to speak--in her ear now, where, in its pinkness, with a little

brown curl touching his lips, it listened.

"You've made me say it, dear, when for your sake I would have kept it

back. But you know--you must know, nothing can come of it."

He heard her murmur, "Why?"

"You know why."

"I don't."

He drew a deep breath.

"Don't you want me?" she asked--into his shoulder.

"Want you!"

"You've everything to offer me."

"Nan----"

"Everything I want. Jerry"--she lifted her head and looked for an

instant into his eyes--"I shall die of heartache if you won't offer it."

"A wreck of a life----"

"I won't let you call it that again," she flashed. "You--Jerrold

Fullerton--whose merest scrawl is reviewed by every literary editor in

the land. Do you think you can't do still better work with--with me?"

"But you wouldn't be marrying Jerrold Fullerton's mind alone."

"No--his soul--all there is of him--his great personality--himself. And

that's so much more than I can give in return----"

"Nan, darling----"

"Yes----"

"Go to Paris for a year, but don't bind yourself to me. Then, when you

come back, if----"

"If I'm still of the same mind----Jerry, you sound like the counsel of a

wise and worldly grandmother," with a gleeful laugh.

"--if I'm no worse--if I'm a little better----This is great medicine,

Nan. I feel like a new man now. If then----"

"I shall not go at all unless--unless----"

"Yes----"

"--unless I am bound tight--tight--to you. I--I shouldn't feel sure of

you!"

"Oh, there's no use resisting you," he said, half under his breath.

"It's the sorriest bargain a woman ever made, but----"

"If she will make it----"

"Look at me, Nan."

"I can't--long," she complained. "Somehow you--you--blind me."

He laughed softly. "I realize that--you are blind--blind. But I can't

open your eyes. Somehow I'm losing the strength to try."

"I must go now," she said gently, trying to release herself. "Really I

must! Yes, I must! Please, Jerry--let me go, dear----Yes, yes--you

must!" It took time, however, and was accomplished with extreme

difficulty. "But I _can_ go now. I couldn't when I said good-night

before----Oh! it's striking twelve! Good-night, Jerry----Merry

Christmas, Jerry!"

Before she quite went, however, she came back once more to lean over the

back of his chair and whisper in his ear:

"Jerry----"

"Yes?"

"Am I really--engaged--to you?"

"Darling--bless you--I'm afraid you are."

"Afraid?"

"Nan--I'm the happiest cripple on earth."

So she went softly out and closed the door. But it was not to sleep. As

for the man she left behind, his eyes looked into the smouldering fire

till well toward morning. It was not the doctor's prescription, but it

was the beginning of his cure.

III

THEIR WORD OF HONOUR

The president of the Great B---- railway system laid down the letter he

had just re-read three times, and turned about in his chair with an

expression of annoyance.

"I wish it were possible," he said slowly, "to find one boy or man in a

thousand who would receive instructions and carry them out to the letter

without a single variation from the course laid down. Cornelius"--he

looked up sharply at his son, who sat at a desk close by--"I hope you

are carrying out my ideas with regard to your sons. I've not seen much

of them lately. The lad Cyrus seems to me a promising fellow, but I'm

not so sure of Cornelius. He appears to be acquiring a sense of his own

importance as Cornelius Woodbridge, 3d, which is not desirable, sir--not

desirable. By the way, Cornelius, have you yet applied the Hezekiah

Woodbridge test to your boys?"

Cornelius Woodbridge, Junior, looked up from his work with a smile. "No,

I haven't, father," he said.

"It's a family tradition, and if the proper care has been taken that the

boys should not learn of it, it will be as much of a test for them as it

was for you and for me, and for my father. You have not forgotten the

day I gave it to you, Cornelius?"

"That would be impossible," said his son, still smiling.

The elder man's somewhat stern features relaxed, and he sat back in his

chair with a chuckle. "Do it at once," he requested, "and make it a

stiff one. You know their characteristics; give it to them hard. I feel

pretty sure of Cyrus, but Cornelius----" He shook his head doubtfully

and returned to his letter. Suddenly he wheeled about again.

"Do it Thursday, Cornelius," he said in his peremptory way, "and

whichever one of them stands it shall go with us on the tour of

inspection. That will be reward enough, I fancy."

"Very well, sir," replied his son, and the two men went on with their

work without further words. They were in the habit of dispatching

important business with the smallest possible waste of breath.

On Thursday morning, immediately after breakfast, Cyrus Woodbridge found

himself summoned to his father's library. He presented himself at once,

a round-cheeked, bright-eyed lad of fifteen, with an air of alertness in

every line of him.

"Cyrus," said his father, "I have a commission for you to undertake, of

a character which I cannot now explain to you. I want you to take this

envelope"--he held out a large and bulky packet--"and without saying

anything to any one follow its instructions to the letter. I ask of you

your word of honour that you will do so."

The two pairs of eyes looked into each other for a moment, singularly

alike in a certain intent expression, developed into great keenness in

the man, but showing as yet only an extreme wide-awakeness in the boy.

Cyrus Woodbridge had an engagement with a young friend in half an hour,

but he responded firmly:

"I will, sir."

"On your honour?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is all I want. Go to your room and read your instructions. Then

start at once."

Mr. Woodbridge turned back to his desk with the nod and smile of

dismissal to which Cyrus was accustomed. The boy went to his room,

opening the envelope as soon as he had closed the door. It was filled

with smaller envelopes, numbered in regular order. Enfolding these was a

typewritten paper which read as follows:

Go to the reading-room of the Westchester Library. There open

Env. No. 1. Remember to hold all instructions secret. C. W., Jr.

Cyrus whistled. "That's funny!" he thought. "And it means my date with

Harold is off. Well, here goes!"

On his way out he stopped to telephone his friend of his detention, took

a Westchester Avenue car at the nearest point, and in twenty minutes was

at the library. He found an obscure corner and opened "Env. No. 1."

Go to office of W. K. Newton, Room 703, seventh floor, Norwalk

Building, X Street, reaching there by 9:30 A. M. Ask for letter

addressed to Cornelius Woodbridge, Jr. On way down elevator open

Env. No. 2. C. W., Jr.

Cyrus began to laugh. At the same time he felt a trifle irritated.

"What's father at?" he questioned, in perplexity. "Here I am away

uptown, and he orders me back to the Norwalk Building. I passed it on my

way up. Must be he made a mistake. Told me to obey instructions, though.

He usually knows just about why he does things."

Meanwhile Mr. Woodbridge had sent for his elder son, Cornelius. A tall

youth of seventeen, with the strong family features, varied by a droop

in the eyelids and a slight drawl in the speech, lounged to the door of

the library. Before entering he straightened his shoulders; he did not,

however, quicken his pace.

"Cornelius," said his father promptly, "I wish to send you upon an

errand of some importance, but of possible inconvenience to you. I have

not time to give you instructions, but you will find them in this

envelope. I ask you to keep the matter and your movements strictly to

yourself. May I have from you your word of honour that I can trust you

to follow the orders to the smallest detail?"

Cornelius put on a pair of eyeglasses, and held out his hand for the

envelope. His manner was nonchalant to the point of indifference.

Mr. Woodbridge withheld the packet and spoke with decision:

"I cannot allow you to look at the instructions until I have your word

of honour that you will fulfil them."

"Isn't that asking a good deal, sir?"

"Perhaps so," said Mr. Woodbridge, "but no more than is asked of trusted

messengers every day. I will assure you that the instructions are mine

and represent my wishes."

"How long will it take?" inquired Cornelius, stooping to flick an

imperceptible spot of dust from his trousers.

"I do not find it necessary to tell you." Something in his father's

voice sent the languid Cornelius to an erect position and quickened his

speech.

"Of course I will go," he said, but he did not speak with enthusiasm.

"And--your word of honour?"

"Certainly, sir." The hesitation before the promise was momentary.

"Very well. I will trust you. Go to your room before opening your

instructions."

And the second somewhat mystified boy went out of the library on that

memorable Thursday morning, to find his first order one which sent him

to a remote district of the city, with the direction to arrive there

within three quarters of an hour.

Out on an electric car Cyrus was speeding to another suburb. After

getting the letter from the seventh floor of the Norwalk Building, he

had read:

Take cross-town car on L Street, transfer to Louisville Avenue,

and go out to Kingston Heights. Find corner West and Dwight

streets and open Env. No. 3. C. W. Jr.

Cyrus was growing more and more puzzled, but he was also getting

interested. At the corner specified he hurriedly tore open No. 3, but

found, to his amazement, only the singular direction:

Take Suburban Elevated Road for Duane Street Station. From there

go to _Sentinel_ Office and secure third edition of yesterday's

paper. Open Env. No. 4. C. W. Jr.

"Well, what under the sun, moon, and stars did he send me out to

Kingston Heights for?" cried Cyrus aloud. He caught the next train,

thinking longingly of his broken engagement with Harold Dunning, and of

certain plans for the afternoon which he was beginning to fear might be

thwarted if this seemingly endless and aimless excursion continued. He

looked at the packet of unopened envelopes.

"It would be mighty easy to break open the whole outfit and see what

this game is," he thought. "Never knew father to do a thing like this

before. If it's a joke"--his fingers felt the seal of "Env. No. 4"--"I

might as well find it out at once. Still, father never would joke with a

fellow's promise the way he asked it of me. 'My word of honour'--that's

putting it pretty strong. I'll see it through, of course. My, but I'm

getting hungry! It must be near luncheon-time."

It was not; but by the time Cyrus had been ordered twice across the city

and once up a sixteen-story building in which the elevator was out of

order it was past noon, and he was in a condition to find "Env. No. 7" a

very satisfactory one:

Go to Café Reynard on Westchester Square. Take seat at table in

left alcove. Ask waiter for card of Cornelius Woodbridge, Jr.

Before ordering luncheon read Env. No. 8. C. W. Jr.

The boy lost no time in obeying this command, and sank into his chair in

the designated alcove with a sigh of relief. He mopped his brow and

drank off a glass of ice water at a gulp. It was a warm October day, and

the sixteen flights had been somewhat trying. He asked for his father's

card, and then sat studying the attractive menu. The Café Reynard was a

place famous the country over for its cookery.

"I think I'll have--" he mused for a moment then said helplessly with a

laugh--"well, I'm about hungry enough to eat the whole thing. Bring me

the----"

Then he recollected, paused, and reluctantly pulled out "Env. No. 8" and

broke the seal. "Just a minute," he murmured to the waiter. Then his

face turned scarlet, and he stammered under his breath, "Why--why--this

can't be----"

"Env. No. 8" ought to have been bordered with black, judging by the

dismay it caused the famished lad. It read remorselessly:

Leave Café immediately, without stopping for luncheon,

remembering to fee waiter for place retained. Proceed to

box office, Metropolitan Theatre, buy a parquet ticket for

matinée--"The Pied Piper." At end of first act read Env.

No. 9. C. W. Jr.

The Woodbridge blood was up now, and it was with an expression

resembling that of his Grandfather Cornelius under strong indignation

that Cyrus stalked out of that charming place to proceed grimly toward

the Metropolitan Theatre.

"Who wants to see a matinée on an empty stomach?" he groaned. "I suppose

I'll be ordered out, anyway, the minute I sit down and stretch my legs.

Wonder if father can be exactly right in his mind. He doesn't believe in

wasting time, but I'm wasting it to-day by the bucketful. Suppose he's

doing this to size me up some way; he isn't going to tire me out as

quick as he thinks. I'll keep going till I drop."

Nevertheless, when at the end of the first act of a pretty play by a

well-trained company of school children he was ordered to go three miles

to a football field, and then ordered away again without a sight of the

game he had planned for a week to see, his disgust was intense.

All through that long, warm afternoon he raced about the city and

suburbs, growing wearier and more empty with every step. The worst of it

was the orders were beginning to assume the form of a schedule, and

commanded that he be here at 3:15, and there at 4:05, and so on, which

forbade loitering had he been inclined to loiter. In it all he could see

no purpose, except the possible one of trying his physical endurance. He

was a strong boy, or he would have been quite exhausted long before he

reached "Env. No. 17," which was the last but three of the packet. This

read:

Reach home at 6:20 P. M. Before entering house read

No. 18. C. W., Jr.

Leaning against one of the big white stone pillars of the porch of his

home, Cyrus wearily tore open No. 18--and the words fairly swam before

his eyes. He had to rub them hard to make sure that he was not mistaken.

Go again to Kingston Heights, corner West and Dwight streets,

reaching there by 6:50. Read No. 19. C. W., Jr.

The boy looked up at the windows, desperately angry at last. If his

pride and his sense of the meaning of that phrase, "My word of honour,"

as the men of the Woodbridge family were in the habit of teaching it to

their sons, had not been both of the strongest sort, he would have

rebelled and gone defiantly and stormily in. As it was, he stood for one

long minute with his hands clenched and his teeth set; then he turned

and walked down the steps, away from the longed-for dinner, and out

toward L Street and the car for Kingston Heights.

As he did so, inside the house, on the other side of the curtain, from

behind which he had been anxiously peering, Cornelius Woodbridge,

Senior, turned about and struck his hands together, rubbing them in a

satisfied way.

"He's come--and gone," he cried softly, "and he's on time to the

minute!"

Cornelius, Junior, did not so much as lift his eyes from the evening

paper, as he quietly answered, "Is he?" But the corners of his mouth

slightly relaxed. One who knew him well might have guessed that he

thought it a simple matter to risk any number of chances on a sure

thing.

The car seemed to crawl out to Kingston Heights. As it at last neared

its terminus, a strong temptation seized the boy Cyrus. He had been on a

purposeless errand to this place once that day. The corner of West and

Dwight streets lay more than half a mile from the end of the car route,

and it was an almost untenanted district. His legs were very tired; his

stomach ached with emptiness. Why not wait out the interval which it

would take to walk to the corner and back in the little suburban

station, read "Env. No. 19," and spare himself? He had certainly done

enough to prove that he was a faithful messenger.

Had he? Certain old and well-worn words came into his mind: they had

been in his "writing-book" in his early school-days: "_A chain is no

stronger than its weakest link._" Cyrus jumped off the car before it

fairly stopped and started at a hot pace for the corner of West and

Dwight streets. There must be no weak places in his word of honour.

Doggedly he went to the extreme limit of the indicated route, even

taking the longest way round to make the turn. As he started back,

beneath the arc light at the corner there suddenly appeared a city

messenger boy. He approached Cyrus grinning, and held out an envelope.

"Ordered to give you this," he said, "if you made connections. If you'd

been later than five minutes past seven, I was to keep dark. You've got

seven minutes and a half to spare. Queer orders, but the big railroad

boss, Woodbridge, give 'em to me."

Cyrus made his way back to the car with some self-congratulations that

served to brace up the muscles behind his knees. This last incident

showed him plainly that his father was putting him to a severe test of

some sort, and he could have no doubt that it was for a purpose. His

father was the kind of man who does things with a very definite purpose

indeed. Cyrus looked back over the day with an anxious searching of his

memory to be sure that no detail of the singular service required of

him had been slighted.

As he once more ascended the steps of his own home, he was so confident

that his labours were now ended that he almost forgot about "Env. No.

20" which he had been directed to read in the vestibule before entering

the house. With his thumb on the bell-button he recollected, and with a

sigh broke open the final seal:

Turn about and go to Lenox Street Station, B---- Railroad,

reaching there by 8.05. Wait for messenger in west end of

station, by telegraph office. C. W., Jr.

It was a blow, but Cyrus had his second wind now. He felt like a

machine--a hollow one--which could keep on going indefinitely.

"I know how an automobile feels," he said to himself, "rolling about

from one place to another--never knowing where it's due next--always

waiting outside--never getting fed. Wonder if eating is on this

schedule. I'd have laid in something besides a chop and a roll this

morning at breakfast if I'd known what was ahead."

The Lenox Station was easily reached on time. The hands of the big clock

were only at one minute past eight when Cyrus entered. At the designated

spot the messenger met him. Cyrus recognized the man as a porter on one

of the trains of the road of which his grandfather and father were

officers. Why, yes, he was the porter of the Woodbridge special car! He

brought the boy a card which ran thus:

Give porter the letter from Norwalk Building, the card

received at restaurant, the matinée coupon, yesterday

evening's _Sentinel_, and the envelope received at

Kingston Heights. C. W., Jr.

Cyrus silently delivered up these articles, feeling a sense of

thankfulness that not one was missing. The porter went away with them,

but was back in three minutes.

"This way, sir," he said, and Cyrus followed, his heart beating fast.

Down the track he recognized the "Fleetwing," President Woodbridge's

private car. And Grandfather Cornelius he knew to be just starting on a

tour of his own and other roads, which included a flying trip to Mexico.

Could it be possible----

In the car his father and grandfather rose to meet him. Cornelius

Woodbridge, Senior, was holding out his hand.

"Cyrus, lad," he said, his face one broad, triumphant smile, "you have

stood the test--the Hezekiah Woodbridge test, sir--and you may be proud

of it. Your word of honour can be depended upon. You are going with us

through nineteen states and Mexico. Is that reward enough for one day's

hardship?"

"I think it is, sir," agreed Cyrus, his round face reflecting his

grandfather's smile, intensified.

"Was it a hard pull, Cyrus?" questioned the elder Woodbridge with

interest.

Cyrus looked at his father. "I don't think so--now, sir," he said. Both

gentlemen laughed.

"Are you hungry?"

"Well, just a little, grandfather."

"Dinner will be served the moment we are off. We've only six minutes to

wait. I'm afraid--I'm very much afraid"--the old gentleman turned to

gaze searchingly out of the car window into the station--"that another

boy's word of honour isn't----"

He stood, watch in hand. The conductor came in and remained, awaiting

orders. "Two minutes more, Mr. Jefferson," he said. "One and a

half----one half a minute." He spoke sternly: "Pull out at 8:14 on the

second, sir. Ah----"

The porter entered hurriedly, and delivered a handful of envelopes into

Grandfather Cornelius's grasp. The old gentleman scanned them at a

glance.

"Yes--yes--all right!" he cried, with the strongest evidences of

excitement Cyrus had ever seen in his usually imperturbable manner. As

the train made its first gentle motion of departure, a figure appeared

in the doorway. Quietly, not at all out of breath, and with precisely

his own nonchalant manner, Cornelius Woodbridge 3d walked into the car.

Then Grandfather Woodbridge grew impressive. He advanced and shook hands

with his grandson as if he were greeting a distinguished member of the

board of directors. Then he turned to his son and shook hands with him

also, solemnly. His eyes shone through his gold-rimmed spectacles, but

his voice was grave with feeling.

"I congratulate you, Cornelius," he said, "on possessing two sons whose

word of honour is of the sort to satisfy the Hezekiah Woodbridge

standard. The smallest deviation from the outlined schedule would have

resulted disastrously. Ten minutes' tardiness at the different points

would have failed to obtain the requisite documents. Your sons did not

fail. They can be depended upon. The world is in search of men built on

those lines. I congratulate you, sir."

Cyrus was glad presently to escape to his stateroom with Cornelius.

"Say, what did you have to do?" he asked eagerly. "Did you trot your

legs off all over town?"

"Not much, I didn't!" said Cornelius, grimly, from the depths of a big

towel. "I spent the whole day in a little hole of a room at the top of

an empty building, with just ten trips down the stairs to the ground

floor to get envelopes at certain minutes. Not a crumb to eat nor a

thing to do. Couldn't even snatch a nap for fear I'd oversleep one of my

dates at the bottom. Had five engagements, too--one with Helena Fowler

at the links. All I could do was to cut 'em and stick it out.

Casabianca was nothing to me."

"I believe that was worse than mine," commented Cyrus reflectively.

"I should say it was. If you don't think so, try it."

"Dinner, boys," said their father's voice at the door, and they lost no

time in responding. When they had taken their seats and the waiter came

for Cornelius's order, that youth simply pushed the card of the

elaborate menu to one side, and said emphatically, quite without his

customary drawl: "Bring me everything, and twice of it."

"Me, too!" said Cyrus, with enthusiasm.

IV

HALF A LEAGUE ONWARD

The Rev. Arthur Thorndyke stirred at his desk with a vague impatience on

account of a little droning sound which had been bothering him for the

last ten minutes without his realizing what it was. He recognized at

last that it was the boy David, in the alcove, where he had asked to be

allowed to stay, promising not to bother Uncle Arthur with his work. For

Uncle Arthur was very busy with his Memorial Day address. At least he

was struggling desperately to be very busy with it, although so far he

had succeeded only in spoiling half a dozen sheets of paper with as many

inadequate introductions.

"For you see, Major," Arthur Thorndyke had explained to the boy, when he

had come tap-tapping on his crutches into his uncle's study that

morning, "this is such very new business to me. I'm having a pretty

hard time trying to think of anything good and fine enough to say to

the men in blue--and gray--and brown, for we have all sorts here, you

know."

It was true that Uncle Arthur was a very boyish-looking uncle; but he

was tall and big, and he had been preaching for a year now, and David

thought that he preached very good sermons indeed. Besides, he had been

in the Spanish War, one of the youngest privates in Uncle Stephen's

company, and he ought to know all about it, even though he had really

been in very few engagements.

"I guess you can do it, Uncle Arthur," said David comfortingly. "And

I'll keep very still in the alcove. I would play somewhere else, only,

you see, it's the only window that looks out over the square, and my

playing is out there."

Uncle Arthur had not taken time to ask him what he meant, but afterward,

when the little droning sound had begun to annoy him, he found out. He

peeped in between the curtains of the alcove, and saw at once what was

out in the square. It was the major's "regiment." To other people the

square might have seemed to be a very quiet place, full of trees and

May sunshine, with a few babies and nurses and placid pedestrians as its

only occupants. But Uncle Arthur perceived at once, from the aspect of

the major, that it was a place of wild carnage, of desperate assault, of

the clash and shock of arms.

The major stood erect, supported by one crutch. The other crutch was

being waved in the air, as by one who orders on a mass of fighting men.

From the major's lips issued the subdued but passionate words:

"Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turned in air

Sabring th' gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All th' world wonder'd:

Plunged in th' batt'ry-smoke

Right through th' line they broke;

Cossack an' Russian

Reeled from th' sabre-stroke

Scatter'd an' shunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not----"

The boy's voice wavered. Uncle Arthur saw him put up a thin hand and

wipe his white little brow. Major David's plays were always intensely

real to him.

"_Not--the six hundred_," he murmured, and sank down on the window-seat,

gazing mournfully out over the square. But in a moment he was up again.

"Cannon to right of 'em," he began again, sternly. "Cannon to left of

'em----"

Uncle Arthur crept away without bidding him remember his promise. What

is a Memorial Day address beside the charge of a Light Brigade?

It was only two days after this that David's mother summoned David's

four uncles to a conference. David had no father. There was a granite

boulder up in the cemetery which ever since David was four years old--he

was ten now--had been draped once a year with a beautiful silken flag.

All the Thorndyke men had been soldiers, and David's father had died at

the front, where the Thorndyke men usually died. It was a matter of

great pride to David every year--that silken flag.

David's four uncles were all soldiers--in a way. There was Uncle

Chester; he had been breveted colonel at the close of the Civil War,

and Colonel Thorndyke he was--against his will--always called still.

Next came Uncle Stephen; he was a captain of artillery in the regular

army, and had lately come home on a furlough, after three years' service

in the Philippines. Then there was Uncle Stuart, just getting strong

after an attack of typhoid fever. In a week he would be back at West

Point, where he was a first classman and a cadet lieutenant. As for

Uncle Arthur, David always regretted deeply that he was no longer in

either volunteer or regular army, although he took some comfort from the

fact that Uncle Arthur sometimes told him that he had never felt more

like a soldier than he did now.

It was a hasty and a serious conference, this to which Mrs. Roger

Thorndyke had summoned her dead husband's three brothers and his uncle.

She felt the need of all their counsel, for she had a grave question to

settle. She was a young woman with a sweet decisiveness of character all

her own, yet when a woman has four men upon whom she can call for wisdom

to support her own judgment, she would be an unwise person to ignore

that fact.

"It's just this," she told them, when she had closed the door of

Arthur's study, where they had assembled. "You know how long we've been

hoping something could be done for David, and how you've all insisted

that when Doctor Wendell should decide he was strong enough for the

operation on the hip-joint we must have it. Well, he says a great

English surgeon, Sir Edmund Barrister, will be here for just two days.

He comes to see the little Woodbridge girl, and to operate on her if he

thinks it best. And Doctor Wendell urges upon me that--it's my chance."

She had spoken quietly, but her face paled a little as she ended. Her

youngest brother-in-law, Stuart, the cadet, himself but lately out of

hospital, was first to speak.

"When does he come?"

"To-morrow."

"Great guns! The little chap's close up to it! Does he know?"

"Oh, no! I wouldn't tell him till it was all arranged. Indeed, I wasn't

sure whether----"

"You'd better tell him at all? Oh, yes, you will, Helen; the major

mustn't stand up to be fired at blindfold." This was from Captain

Stephen, the only one of the four now in active service.

"You all think it's best to have it done?"

"Why, it's as Wendell says: now's the chance to have the best man in

that line. You can rest assured the Woodbridges would never stop at

anything short of the finest. Besides, the Englishman's reputation is

international. Of course it must be done." This was Stuart again. The

cadet lieutenant had already acquired the tone of command--he was an

excellent cadet lieutenant.

But Mrs. Thorndyke looked past Stuart at her Uncle Chester, Colonel

Thorndyke, Civil War veteran. It was upon his opinion that she most

relied. He nodded at her.

"He's right, Nell," he said. "It's our chance. The boy seems to me in as

good condition for it as he'll ever be." He spoke very gently, for to

his mind, as to them all, rose the vision of a delicate little face and

figure, frail with the frailty of the child who has been for six years a

cripple.

So it was decided, with few words, that the great surgeon should see

David upon the morrow, to operate upon him at once if he thought wise,

as the local surgeon, Doctor Wendell, was confident he would. Then arose

another question: Who should tell David?

"Somehow I think," said Mrs. Thorndyke, looking from one to another of

the four who surrounded her, "it would be easier for him from one of

you. He thinks so much of your being soldiers. You know he's always

playing he's a soldier, and if--if one of you could put it to him--in a

sort of military way----"

She stopped, for this time her lips were really trembling. They looked

at one another, the four men, and there was not a volunteer for the

task. After a minute, however, Arthur, lifting his eyes from the rug

which he had been intently studying, found the others were all facing

him.

"You're the one," said Captain Stephen Thorndyke.

"I think you are," agreed Colonel Chester Thorndyke.

"It's up to you, Art," declared Cadet Lieutenant Thorndyke, with his

usual decision of manner.

So, although Arthur protested that he was not as fit for the mission as

any of the others, they would not let him off.

"You're the one he swears by," Stephen said, and Stuart added:

"Put on your old khaki clothes, Art; that'll tickle the major so he

won't mind what you tell him."

It was a suggestion which appealed to the young clergyman as he lay

awake that night, thinking how he should tell the boy in the morning. It

seemed to him somehow that it would take the edge off the thing if he

could meet David in the old uniform which the child was always begging

to see.

Just before he fell asleep he thought of his Memorial Day address. Since

the morning, day before yesterday, when David's play had interrupted his

first futile efforts at it, he had found no time to work on it. He had

had a wedding and two funerals to attend, besides having to look after

the preparation for his Sunday services. The following Saturday would be

Memorial Day. Meanwhile--there was David.

The next morning Mrs. Thorndyke, on her way to Arthur's study to tell

him that the doctor had telephoned that he would bring the English

surgeon to the house at eleven o'clock for the preliminary examination,

ran into a tall figure in a khaki uniform, a battered slouch hat in his

hand.

"Why, Arthur!" she cried, then added quickly: "Oh, my dear, that's just

what will please him! I'm so glad it's you who are to tell him--you'll

know how."

"I don't know how," said her brother, and she saw that his eyes were

heavy. "But I expect the Commander-in-Chief will show me how." And with

these words he went into his study and closed the door for a moment

before David should come, in order that he might get his instructions

from headquarters.

When the boy came in on his crutches, he found a soldierly figure

awaiting him. He saluted, and the tall corporal returned the salute. The

deep eyes of the man met the clear, bright ones of the child, and the

corporal said to the major:

"I am ordered to report to you, sir, that the enemy is encamped on the

opposite shore, and is preparing to attack."

Half an hour afterward Mrs. Thorndyke came anxiously to the door of the

study. Hearing cheerful voices within, she knocked, and was bidden to

enter.

Her first glance was at little David's face. To her surprise, she saw

there neither fear nor nervousness, only an excited shining of the eyes

and an unusual flushing of the cheeks. The boy rose to meet her.

"I'm ready, mammy," he announced in his childish treble. "Uncle Arthur

says I've got a chance to prove I'm a soldier's son and a Thorndyke, and

I'm going to do it. The enemy's encamped over in the hospital, and I'm

going to move on his works to-day. I'm going over with my staff. This is

Corporal Thorndyke, and Colonel Chester Thorndyke and Captain Stephen

Thorndyke and Lieutenant Stuart Thorndyke are my staff. And the corporal

has promised that they'll go with me in uniform. I'm going to wear my

uniform, too--may I?"

The oddness of the question, made in a tone which dropped suddenly and

significantly from the proud address of the officer to the humble

request of the subaltern, brought a very tender smile to Mrs.

Thorndyke's lips, as she gave her brother a grateful glance. "Yes," she

said, "I think you certainly ought to wear your uniform. I'll get it

ready."

"I may be taken prisoner over there," the little soldier pursued, "but

if I do, Uncle Ar--the corporal says that's the fortunes of war, and I

must take it as it comes."

Downstairs, presently, David, under a flag of truce, met the opposing

general and his staff. The bluff-looking Englishman with the kind manner

made an excellent general, David thought.

They detained him only a half-hour, but when he left them it was with

the understanding that his army should move forward at once and attack

upon the morrow. It seemed a bit unusual, not to say unmilitary, to

David, to arrange such matters so thoroughly with the enemy, but his

corporal assured him that under certain conditions the thing was done.

There being no other part of the "Charge" that would fit, David said

over to himself a great many times on the way to the hospital the

opening lines:

"Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward.

All in th' valley of Death

Rode th' six hundred...."

As he went up the hospital steps, tap-tapping on his crutches because he

would not let anybody carry him, the situation seemed to him much

better. He stopped upon the top step, balanced himself upon one crutch,

and waved the other at his staff--and at the "Six Hundred," pressing on

behind.

"Forward, th' Light Brigade!

'Charge for th' guns!' he said...."

"What's the little chap saying?" Uncle Chester murmured into the ear of

Uncle Arthur, as the small figure hurried on.

"He's living out 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,'" Arthur answered,

and there was no smile on his lips. Uncle Chester swallowed something in

his throat.

It may have been a common thing for the hospital nurses and doctors to

see a patient in military clothes arrive accompanied by four other

military figures--the uniforms a little mixed; but if they were

surprised they gave no sign. The nurse who put David to bed wore a Red

Cross badge on her sleeve--hastily constructed by Doctor Wendell. This

badge David regarded with delight.

"Why, you're a real army nurse, aren't you?" he asked happily.

"Of course. They are the kind to take care of soldiers," she returned.

And after that there was a special bond between them.

When they had finished with David that night he was rather glad to have

Corporal Thorndyke say to him that there was a brief cessation of

hostilities, and that the men were to have the chance for a few hours'

sleep.

"But you'll stay by, won't you, Corporal?" requested the major sleepily.

"Certainly, sir," responded the corporal, saluting. "I'll be right here

all night."

The corporal at this point was so unmilitary as to bend over and kiss

him; but as this was immediately followed by a series of caresses from

his mother, the major thought it best not to mind. Indeed, it was very

comforting, and he might have missed it if it had not happened, even

though he was supposed to be in the field and sleeping upon his arms.

The next morning things happened rather rapidly.

"No rations, Major," said the Red Cross nurse, when he inquired for his

breakfast.

"Commissary department left far to the rear," explained the corporal,

with his salute; and of course there was nothing more to be said,

although it did seem a little hard to face "the jaws of death" with no

food to hearten one.

A number of things were done to David. Then Doctor Wendell came in and

sat down by the high white bed, and, with a reassuring smile at his

patient, gave him a few brief directions. The corporal took David's hand

in his, and held it with the tight grip of the comrade who means to

stand by to the last ditch.

"Forward, th' Light Brigade!

Was 'ere a man dismay'd?

Not though the soldier knew

Some 'un had blunder'd...."

"God forbid!" murmured the corporal, as the words trailed slowly out

into the air from under Doctor Wendell's hand.

"Theirs not to make reply--

Theirs--not to--reason--why--

Theirs--but--to--do--an'--die----"

The corporal set his teeth. Presently he looked across the bed and met

the eyes of the major's mother. "So far, so good," he said, nodding to

her, as the small hand in his relaxed its hold.

"Talk about sheer pluck!" growled Captain Stephen Thorndyke, in the

waiting-room, where he and Colonel Chester and Cadet Stuart were

marching up and down during the period of suspense.

"It's that 'Charge of the Light Brigade' that floors me," said Stuart.

"If the youngster'd just whimper a little; but to go under whispering,

'Theirs not to make reply----'" He choked, and frankly drew his gray

sleeve across his eyes.

"It's the Thorndyke spirit," said Colonel Chester proudly. "He's Roger's

boy, all right."

There were two or three doubtful bulletins. Then Arthur brought them the

good news that the major had been brought back from the firing-line and

was rallying bravely.

"But will he pull through? These successful operations don't always end

successfully," said Stuart, as he and Arthur paced down the corridor

together.

"That's what we've got to wait and hope and pray for," answered Arthur.

"It's the 'stormed at with shot and shell' the major'd be reciting now,

if he could do anything but shut his lips together and try to bear the

pain. It'll be five or six days, they say, before we can call him out of

danger. Hip-joint disease of Davy's form isn't cured by anything short

of this grave operation, and it's taking a good many chances, of course,

in the little chap's delicate condition. But--we've all his own staunch

courage on our side--and somehow, well--Stuart, I've got to preach

to-morrow. And next week--that Memorial address! How do you suppose I'm

going to do it? The major wants me on hospital duty every hour between

now and then."

That Memorial Day address! How was a distraught young clergyman to

think of material for such an address when he was held captive at the

bedside of a little soldier fighting for his life?

It was the fourth day before anxiety began to lessen its grip; the

fifth, the sixth, before Doctor Wendell would begin to speak

confidently. Through it all the words of the "Charge" beat in Arthur

Thorndyke's brain till it seemed to him that if David died he should

never hear anything else. For they were constantly on the boy's lips.

Finally, on the morning of Saturday, Arthur said to David: "Major, this

is the day for you to say the last lines. You know this afternoon the

'Six Hundred' are going by. You'll hear the band play, and Uncle Chester

and Uncle Stephen will be marching in the ranks. Stuart and I will be

there, too, somewhere, and I think if we can just prop you up a little

bit you'll be able to see at least the heads of the men. And you can

salute, you know, even if they can't see you."

"After the procession are you going to speak to them?" asked David.

Arthur smiled. "After some sort of fashion I'm going to open my mouth,"

he said. "I hardly know myself what will come out. All I do know is, I

never had quite so much respect for the courage that faces the cannon's

mouth as now. And it's you, Major, who are the pluckiest soldier I

know."

He smiled down at the white little face, its great gray eyes staring up

at him.

"Uncle Arthur--but--but--I wasn't plucky--all the time. Sometimes--it

hurt so I--had to cry."

The words were a whisper, but Uncle Arthur still smiled. "That doesn't

count, Major," he said. "Now I must go. Watch for the band."

Away in the distance, by and by, came the music. As it approached,

mingled with it David could hear the sound of marching feet. His mother

and the Red Cross nurse propped his head up a very little, so that he

could see into the street. Louder and louder grew the strains, then

stopped; the drums beat.

"Oh, they're not going to play as they go by!" cried David,

disappointed.

The tramp of the marching feet came nearer. Suddenly the band burst

with a crash into the "Star-Spangled Banner." David's eyes shone with

delight.

"They're halting in front of us, David," said the nurse. So they were;

David could see them.

The music reached the end of the tune and stopped. A shout broke upon

the air; it was a cheer. It took words, and swelled into David's room;

but it was a gentle cheer, not a vociferous one. It was given by

Lieutenant Roger Thorndyke's old company. And the words of it were

wonderful:

_"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah--comrade!"_

David lay back on his pillow, his face shining with happiness. He would

never forget that those soldiers of his father's regiment, the ----th

New York, had called him comrade. He thought of them tenderly; he

murmured the closing words of the "Charge," and by them he meant the men

who had stood outside his window and cheered:

"When can their glory fade?

O th' wild charge they made!

All th' world wonder'd.

Honour th' charge they made!

Honour th' Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!"

An hour afterward they came in together, his four Thorndyke soldiers, in

their uniforms--all but Uncle Arthur, who, because he was a clergyman,

and had had to make a speech, had felt obliged to put on a frock coat.

"Here's the fellow who's been worrying over his Memorial Day address!"

cried Uncle Stephen proudly.

"It was a rousing good one," declared Stuart.

"Never heard a better," agreed Uncle Chester. "He's gone 'half a league

onward,' if the rest of us have stood still."

Uncle Arthur came round, his face rather red, and sat down beside David.

"Don't you believe them, Major," he said softly. "I could have done it

much better if I could have worn my corporal's uniform."

THE END

A COURT OF INQUIRY

BY GRACE S. RICHMOND.

This is a charming story of a group of girl and men friends and the

effect of their pairing off upon the narrator and her "Philosopher."

Althea, Azalea, Camellia, Dahlia, Hepatica--and their several

entanglements with the Promoter, the Cashier, the Skeptic, the Judge and

the Professor, form an admirable background of diverse personalities

against which grows the main love story. One sees these charming groups

through the eyes of the one who tells the tale--and very shrewd and

delightful eyes they are, seeing life in its true perspective with much

real philosophy and true feeling. Mrs. Richmond has never written

anything more fresh and human and entertaining.

ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

Red Pepper Burns.

Mrs. Red Pepper.

The Indifference of Juliet.

Round the Corner in Gay Street.

With Juliet in England.

Strawberry Acres.

The Second Violin.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers,--New York

[Transcriber's notes:

"Where-ever" on page 78 has been changed to "Wherever" to be consistent

with the spelling in the rest of the text.

"everbody" on page 96 has been changed to "everybody".]