Dorian Trent was going to town to buy himself a pair of shoes. He had
some other errands to perform for himself and his mother, but the reason
for his going to town was the imperative need of shoes. It was Friday
afternoon. The coming Sunday he must appear decently shod, so his mother
had told him, at the same time hinting at some other than the Sunday
reason. He now had the money, three big, jingling silver dollars in his
pocket.
Dorian whistled cheerfully as he trudged along the road. It was a scant
three miles to town, and he would rather walk that short distance than
to be bothered with a horse. When he took Old Nig, he had to keep to the
main-traveled road straight into town, then tie him to a post--and worry
about him all the time; but afoot and alone, he could move along as
easily as he pleased, linger on the canal bank or cut cross-lots through
the fields to the river, cross it on the footbridge, then go on to town
by the lower meadows.
The road was dusty that afternoon, and the sun was hot. It would be
cooler under the willows by the river. At Cottonwood Corners, Dorian
left the road and took the cut-off path. The river sparkled cool and
clear under the overhanging willows. He saw a good-sized trout playing
in the pool, but as he had no fishing tackle with him, the boy could
only watch the fish in its graceful gliding in and out of sunshine and
shadow. A robin overhead was making a noisy demonstration as if in
alarm about a nest. Dorian sat on the bank to look and listen for a few
moments, then he got up again.
Crossing the river, he took the cool foot-path under the willows. He
cut down one of the smoothest, sappiest branches with which to make
whistles. Dorian was a great maker of whistles, which he freely gave
away to the smaller boys and girls whom he met. Just as it is more fun
to catch fish than to eat them, so Dorian found more pleasure in giving
away his whistles than to stuff them in his own pockets. However, that
afternoon, he had to hurry on to town, so he caught no fish, and made
only one whistle which he found no opportunity to give away. In the
city, he attended to his mother's errands first. He purchased the few
notions which the store in his home town of Greenstreet did not have,
checking each item off on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil. Then,
there were his shoes.
Should he get lace or button, black or tan? Were there any bargains in
shoes that afternoon? He would look about to see. He found nothing in
the way of footwear on Main street which appealed to him. He lingered at
the window of the book store, looking with envious eyes at the display
of new books. He was well known by the bookseller, for he was a frequent
visitor, and, once in a while, he made a purchase; however, to day he
must not spend too much time "browsing" among books. He would, however,
just slip around to Twenty-fifth street and take a look at the
secondhand store there. Not to buy shoes, of course, but sometimes there
were other interesting things there, especially books.
Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the sidewalk in front of this
second-hand store was a lot of books, a hundred or more--books of all
kind--school books, history, fiction, all of them in good condition,
some only a little shopworn, others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly
looked them over. Here were books he had read about, but had not
read--and the prices! Dickens' "David Copperfield", "Tale of Two
Cities", "Dombey and Son", large well-printed books, only a little
shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackeray's "Vanity Fair", twenty-five
cents; books by Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson
Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian had, of course, read
"Robinson Crusoe" but he had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's
this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two volumes, new, fifty cents each!
Dorian turned the leaves. A man stepped up and also began handling the
books. Yes, here were bargains, surely. He stacked a number together as
if he desired to secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped the other
volume of the Conquest under his arm and made as if to gather a number
of other books under his protection. He must have some of these before
they were all taken by others. The salesman now came up to him and
asked:
"Find something you want?"
"O, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian.
"They're bargains."
Dorian needed not to be told that.
"They're going fast, too."
"Yes, I suppose so."
His heart fell as he said it, for he realized that he had no money to
buy books. He had come to town to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He
glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly falling to pieces, but
they might last a little longer. If he bought the "Conquest of Peru" he
would still have two dollars left. Could he buy a pair of shoes for that
amount? Very likely but not the kind his mother had told him to get, the
kind that were not too heavy or "stogy" looking, but would be "nice"
for Sundays. He held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens and
Thackeray were still protectingly within his reach. What could he do?
Down there in Peru there had been a wonderful people whom Pizarro, the
bad, bold Spaniard had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about it all
vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was the whole story, beautifully
and minutely told. He must have these books. This bargain might never
come again to him. But what would his mother say? She herself had added
the last half dollar to his amount to make sure that he could get the
nicer kind.
"Well, sir, how many of these will you have?" asked the salesman.
"I'll--I'll take these two, anyway"--meaning Prescott's Conquest--"and
let me see", he looked hungrily over the titles--"And this one 'David
Copperfield'." It was hard to select from so many tempting ones. Here
was one he had missed: "Ben Hur"--, a fine new copy in blue and gold. He
had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole story was as interesting as
that, he must have it. He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his
hand touched lovingly a number of other books, but he resisted the
temptation, and said: "That's all--this time."
The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper and handed the package to
Dorian who paid for them with his two silver dollars, receiving some
small silver in change. Then, with his package under his arm, the boy
walked on down the street.
Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what he had done. How could
he face his mother? How could he go home without shoes? Books might be
useful for the head, but they would not clothe the feet. He jingled the
coins in his pocket as he walked on down to the end of the business
section of the city. He could not buy any kind of shoes to fit his big
feet for a dollar and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do but to
go home, and "face the music", so he walked on in a sort of fearsome
elation. At a corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to books,
Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy some candy for the twenty
cents. He went into the store and took his time looking at the tempting
display, finally buying ten cents worth of chocolates for himself and
ten cents worth of peppermint lozenges for his mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, was very much a child;
he did many childish things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man;
the child in him and the man in him did not seem to merge into the boy,
but were somewhat "separate and apart," as the people of Greenstreet
would say.
Dorian again took the less frequented road home. The sun was still high
when he reached the river. He was not expected home for some time yet,
so there was no need for hurry. He crossed the footbridge, noticing
neither birds nor fish. Instead of following the main path, he struck
off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny grass plat in the shade of a
tree by the river. He sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back
from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of wavy, rusty-colored hair.
Then he untied his package of books and spread his treasures before him
as a miser would his gold. He opened "David Copperfield", looked at the
frontispiece which depicted a fat man making a very emphatic speech
against someone by the name of Heep. It must all be very interesting,
but it was altogether too big a book for him to begin to read now. "Ben
Hur" looked solid and substantial; it would keep until next winter when
he would have more time to read. Then he picked up the "Conquest",
volume one. He backed up against the tree, settled himself into a
comfortable position, took from his paper bag a chocolate at which he
nibbled contentedly, and then away he went with Prescott to the land of
the Inca and the glories of a vanished race!
For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he closed his book, wrapped up
his package again, and went on his homeward way.
The new canal for which the farmers of Greenstreet had worked and waited
so long had just been completed. The big ditch, now full of running
water, was a source of delight to the children as well as to the more
practical adults. The boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and
sported in the cool stream. Near the village of Greenstreet was a big
headgate, from which the canal branched into two divisions. As Dorian
walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he saw a group of children
at play near the headgate. They were making a lot of robust noise, and
Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always interested in the children,
being more of a favorite among them than among the boys of his own age.
"There's Dorian," shouted one of the boys. "Who are you going to marry?"
What in the world were the youngsters talking about, thought the young
man, as the chattering children surrounded him.
"What's all this?" asked Dorian, "a party?"
"Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; we're just taking a walk by the canal to
see the water; my, but it's nice!"
"What, the party or the water?"
"Why, the water."
"Both" added another.
"We've all told who we're going to marry," remarked a little rosy-faced
miss, "all but Carlia, an' she won't tell."
"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You wouldn't have her tell a fib,
would you?"
"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us."
"She's just stubborn."
She who was receiving these criticisms seemed to be somewhat older
and larger than her companions. Just now, not deigning to notice the
accusation of her friends, she was throwing sticks into the running
water and watching them go over the falls at the headgate and dance on
the rapids below. Her white party dress was as yet spotless. She swung
her straw hat by the string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an
unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not the least discomposed by
the teasing of the other children, neither by Dorian's presence. This
was her party, and why should not she do and say what she pleased.
Carlia now led the way along the canal bank until she came to where a
pole spanned the stream. She stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure
footbridge, then turning to her companions, said:
"I can back you out."
"How? Doin' what?" they asked.
"Crossing the canal on the pole."
"Shucks, you can't back me out," declared one of the boys, at which he
darted across the swaying pole, and with a jump, landed safely across.
Another boy went at it gingerly, and with the antics of a tight-rope
walker, he managed to get to the other side. The other boys held back;
none of the girls ventured.
"All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the other bank.
The girl stood looking at the frail pole.
"Come on, it's easy," they encouraged.
Carlia placed her foot on the pole as if testing it. The other girls
protested. She would fall in and drown.
"You dared us; now who's the coward," cried the boys.
Carlia took a step forward, balanced herself, and took another. The
children stood in spell-bound silence. The girl advanced slowly along
the frail bridge until she reached the middle where the pole swayed
dangerously.
"Balance yourself," suggested the second boy.
"Run," said the first.
But Carlia could neither balance nor run. She stood for a moment on the
oscillating span, then threw up her hands, and with a scream she plunged
into the waters of the canal.
No thought of danger had entered Dorian's mind as he stood watching the
capers of the children. If any of them fell in, he thought, they would
only get a good wetting. But as Carlia fell, he sprang forward. The
water at this point was quite deep and running swiftly. He saw that
Carlia fell on her side and went completely under. The children
screamed. Dorian, startled out of his apathy, suddenly ran to the canal
and jumped in. It was done so impulsively that he still held on to his
package of books. With one hand he lifted the girl out of the water, but
in her struggles, she knocked the bundle from his hand, and the precious
books splashed into the canal and floated down the stream. Dorian made
an effort to rescue them, but Carlia clung so to his arms that he could
do nothing but stand and see the package glide over the falls at the
headgate and then go dancing over the rapids, even as Carlia's sticks
had done. For a moment the young man's thoughts were with his books, and
it seemed that he stood there in the canal for quite a while in a sort
of daze, with the water rushing by his legs. Then mechanically he
carried the girl to the bank and would have set her down again with her
companions, but she clung to him so closely and with such terror in her
eyes that he lifted her into his arms and talked reassuringly to her:
"There, now," he said, "you're only a bit wet. Don't cry."
"Take me home. I--I want to go home," sobbed the girl.
"Sure," said Dorian. "Come on everybody."
He led the way, and the rest of the children followed.
"I suppose the party's about over, anyway," suggested he.
"I--I guess so."
They walked on in silence for a time; then Carlia said:
"I guess I'm heavy."
"Not at all", lied the young man bravely, for she was heavier than he
had supposed; but she made no offer to walk. By the time they reached
the gate, Carlia was herself again, and inclined to look upon her
wetting and escape as quite an adventure.
"There," said Dorian as he seated the girl on the broad top of the gate
post; "I'll leave you there to dry. It won't take long."
He looked at his own wet clothes, and then at his ragged, mud-laden
shoes. He might as well carry the girl up the path to her home, but
then, that was not necessary. The day was warm, there was no danger of
colds, and she could run up the path in a few minutes.
"Well, I'll go now. Goodby," he said.
"Wait a minute--Say, I'm glad you saved me, but I'm sorry you lost your
package. What was in it?"
"Only books."
"I'll get you some more, when I get the money, yes I will. Come here and
lift me down before you go."
He obeyed. She put a wet arm about his neck and cuddled her dark, damp
curls against his russet mop. He lifted her lightly down, and then he
slipped a chocolate secretly into her hand.
"Oh girls," exclaimed one of the party, "I know now."
"Know what?" asked Carlia.
"I know who you are going to marry."
"Who?"
"You're going to marry Dorian."