so. Now all sorts of barriers seemed to intervene, and the worst of it
was that these barriers he seemed to have spun from out his own soul.
Then too a queer feeling suddenly invaded his chest, exactly like that
he remembered to have experienced during the downward rush of a swing.
Bobby could not comprehend these things; they just were. He was fairly
to the point of deciding to go back and look at the Flobert Rifle, in
the shop window, when a group of children ran out from the wide office
doors to the croquet court at the side.
Among them Bobby made out Celia, a different Celia from her of the
picnic. Her curls danced as full of life and light as ever; the biscuit
brown of her complexion glowed as smooth and clean; even from a distance
Bobby could see the contrast of her black eyes; but on her head she wore
a brown chip hat; her gown was of plain blue gingham; her slim straight
legs were encased in heavy strong stockings. She looked like a healthy,
lively little girl out for a good time; and the sight cheered Bobby's
wavering courage as nothing else could. His vague ideas of retreat were
discarded.
But he did not know how to approach. The children inside the low rail
fence were placing the brilliantly-striped wooden balls in a row in
order to determine by 'pinking' at the stake who should have the
advantageous last shot. Bobby, irresolute, halted outside, shifting
uneasily, wanting to join the group, but withheld by the unwonted
bashfulness. Amid shouts and exclamations each clicked his mallet
against his ball, and immediately ran forward with the greatest
eagerness to see how near the stake he had come. At last the group
formed close. A moment's dispute cleared. Celia had won, and now stood
erect, her cheeks flushing, her eyes dancing with triumph. In so doing
she caught sight of Bobby hesitating outside.
"Why, there's Bobby!" she cried. "Come on in, Bobby, and play!"
At the sound of her voice, all his timidity vanished. He entered boldly
and joined the others.
"This is Bobby," announced Celia by way of general introduction, "and
this," she continued, turning to Bobby, "is Gerald, and Morris, and
Kitty and Margaret."
"Hullo," said Morris, "Grab a mallet, and come on."
Bobby liked Morris, who was a short, redheaded boy of jolly aspect.
Gerald, a youth of perhaps twelve years of age, rather tall and slender,
of very dark, clear, pale complexion, nodded carelessly. Bobby took an
immediate distaste for him. He looked altogether too superior, and
sleepy and distinguished--yes, and stylish. Bobby was very young and
inexperienced; but even he could feel that Gerald's round straw hat, and
norfolk-cut jacket, and neat, loose, short trousers buckled at the knee
contrasted a little more than favourably with his own chip hat, blue
blouse and tight breeches. Also he was already dusty, while Gerald was
immaculate.
As to Kitty and Margaret, they were nice, neat, clean, pretty little
girls--but not like Celia!
Bobby found a mallet and ball in the long wooden case, and joined the
game. He was not skilful at it, and soon fell behind the others in the
progress through the wickets. Indeed, when, after two strokes, he had at
last gained position for the "middle arch," he met Gerald coming the
other way. Gerald shot for his ball; hit it; and then, with a disdainful
air, knocked Bobby away out of bounds across the lawn. This was quite
within the rules, but it made Bobby angry just the same. As he trudged
doggedly away after his ball, he felt himself very much alone under what
he thought must be the derisive eyes of all the rest. The game ended
before he had gained the turning stake.
"Skunked," remarked Morris cheerfully.
Gerald said nothing, did not even look; but Bobby liked Morris's comment
better than Gerald's assumed indifference.
"Let's have another game--partners," suggested Gerald to Celia.
But Bobby, to his own great surprise, found courage to speak up.
"Let's not play croquet any more," said he. "Let's have a game of
Hi-Spy."
"It's too hot," interposed Gerald quickly.
The others said nothing, but with the child's keen instinct for the
drama, had drawn aside in favour of the principal actors. Gerald stood
by the stake, leaning indolently on his mallet, his long black lashes
down-cast over the dark pallor of his cheeks, very handsome, very
graceful. Bobby had drawn near on Celia's other side. The comparison
showed all his freckles and the unformed homeliness of his rather dumpy,
sturdy figure; it showed also the honest dull red of his cheeks and the
clear unfaltering gray of his eyes. Celia, between them, looked down,
tapping her croquet ball with the tip of her shoe.
"I don't think it's very hot," she said at last, looking up. "Let's play
Hi-Spy."
A wave of glowing triumph rushed through Bobby's soul. Gerald merely
shrugged his shoulders.
But unmixed joy was to be a short-lived emotion with Bobby as far as
Celia was concerned. He knew lots of fine hiding-places about the
grounds of the Ottawa, and he promised himself that he would take Celia
to them. They could hide together; and that would be delightful.
Morris counted out first to be "it." He leaned his arm against a post,
his head against his arm, and closed his eyes.
"Ten-ten-double-ten-forty-five-fifteen" he repeated over ten times as
rapidly as possible. That was his way of counting a thousand.
The other children scurried off as fast as their legs could carry them
in order to reach concealment before the end of the count. And somehow,
against his will, Bobby found himself cast in the hurry of the moment
with Kitty instead of with Celia. And Celia he saw disappear in Gerald's
convoy.
"Coming!" roared Morris, uncovering his eyes.
"Oh dear, he's coming!" cried Kitty in distress, "and we're not hid!
Where shall we go? Don't you know any good places?"
But Bobby, still confused over his disappointment, had not the wits
wherewith to think in so pressing an emergency. He vacillated between
pillar and post; and so was espied by the goal-keeper. Morris
immediately set himself in rapid motion for the "home."
"One, two, three for Bobby Orde!" he cried, striking the post
vigorously. "One, two, three for Kitty Clark!"
The two reluctantly appeared.
"There, now, you got us caught," accused Kitty sulkily.
"Never mind," consoled Bobby, "anyway he saw me first. I'm it!"
Morris was off prowling after more prey. As he disappeared around the
corner of the building a rapid flash of skirts was visible from the
other. Morris caught it; and, turning, raced with all his might back to
the home goal. But Margaret had too good a head start. She arrived
first; and immediately began to dance around and around, her long legs
twinkling, her two thick braids flying.
"In free! In free!" she shrieked over and over again.
There still remained Celia and Gerald. Morris set himself very carefully
to find them, prowling into all likely places, but returning abruptly
every moment or so in order to forestall or discourage attempts to get
in. He proved unsuccessful; nor did his absence seem to afford the
others chances to run home. The other three watched with growing
impatience.
"Oh, Morris, let them in!" begged Kitty. Bobby felt a glow of kindliness
toward her for making the suggestion. He would not have proffered it
himself for worlds. Morris, however, was obstinate. He continued his
search for at least ten minutes. At last he had to give in.
"All sorts in free!" he called at the top of his voice.
Celia and Gerald appeared smiling and unruffled. They refused to divulge
their hiding-place.
"We'll save it until next time," said Celia.
Bobby blinded his eyes and counted. He had no interest in the game, and
experienced inside himself a half-sick, hollow feeling unique in his
experience. Morris, Kitty and Margaret got in free, simply because his
attention was too lax. Gerald and Celia had once more disappeared. After
a decent interval the others became clamorous again for general amnesty.
"Blind again, Bobby," they urged, "let them in free."
But Bobby continued to search beyond the places he had already looked.
His further knowledge of the hotel grounds was a negligible quantity; so
he began, consistently to eliminate all possibilities. From one corner
he zigzagged back and forth, testing every nook and cranny that might
contain a human being. Thus he examined every foot of the place; but
without results. He was puzzled; but he would not give up. Methodically,
and to the vast disgust of the others, he began over again at the corner
from which he had started. No results.
"No fair outside the grounds!" he shouted. To this of course, no answer
came.
"Give it up!" urged the others.
"I won't!" insisted Bobby doggedly.
He did not know where to search next, so he looked up. The hotel was
provided with a broad shady flat-roofed verandah. At the edge of this
roof, projecting the least bit above, Bobby glimpsed a fold of blue. The
pair were evidently lying at full length in the spacious water gutter.
The blue could be nothing but the gingham of Celia's dress. Nevertheless
Bobby walked to goal and calmly announced.
"One, two, three for Gerald--on the verandah roof!" And then, after a
deliberate pause, "All sorts in free!"
Gerald blinded. Bobby, with determination, took Celia's hand, and
breathlessly the pair sped away. The little boy's first move was to
place the hotel building between himself and Gerald.
"Can you climb a fence?" he asked hurriedly.
"If it isn't too high."
"Come on then, I know a dandy place."
Bobby attacked the board fence behind the hotel. Two packing-boxes of
different heights made the problem of ascent easy. But the other side
was a sheer drop; and Celia was afraid.
"I can't!" she cried. "It's too far!"
"Just drop," advised Bobby desperately. "Hurry up! He'll be around the
corner!"
"I daren't!" cried poor Celia. "You go first."
Promptly Bobby dangled; and dropped.
"See; it's easy. Come on, I'll catch you!"
Finally Celia wiggled over the edge, shut her eyes, and let go. She
landed directly on Bobby, and the two went down in a heap.
"Come on!" whispered Bobby. "Scoot!"
Before them rose a whitewashed barn. Celia's hand in his, Bobby darted
in at the open doorway, and more by instinct than by sight, found a
rickety steep flight of stairs and ascended to the hay-mow.
"There, isn't that great?" he whispered.
They sank back on the soft fragrant hay, and breathed luxuriously after
the haste of the last few moments. A score of mice had scurried away at
their abrupt entrance; and the fairy-like echoes of these animals' tiny
feet seemed to linger in the twilight. Through cracks long pencils of
sunlight lay across the hay and the dim criss-cross of the rafters
above. Dust motes crossed them in lazy eddies, each visible for a golden
moment as it entered the glow of its brief importance, only to be
blotted into invisibility as it passed.
"Is this a fair hide?" whispered Celia. "This is outside the grounds."
"It's the hotel barn," replied Bobby. "I bet he doesn't find us here."
They fell silent, because they were hiding, and in that silence they
unconsciously drew nearer to each other. The delicious aroma of the hay
overcame their spirits with a drowsiness. New sensations thronged on
Bobby's spirit, made receptive by the narcotic influences of the tepid
air, the mysterious dimness, the wands of gold, the floating brief
dust-motes. He wanted to touch Celia; and he found himself diffident. He
wanted to hear her voice; and he suddenly discovered in himself an
embarrassment in addressing her which was causeless and foolish. He
wanted to look at her; and he did so; but it was not frankly and
openly, as he had always looked at people before. His shy side-glances
delighted in the clear curve of her cheeks; the soft wheat-colour of her
curls; the dense black of her half-closed eyes; the brown of her
complexion; the sweet cleanliness of her. A faint warm fragrance
emanated from her. Bobby's heart leaped and stood still. All at once he
knew what was the matter. It is a mistake to imagine that children do
not recognize love when it comes to them. Love requires no announcement,
no definition, no description. Only in later years when the first fresh
purity of the heart has gone, we may perhaps require of him an
introduction.
At once Bobby felt swelling within his breast a great longing, a hunger
which filled his throat, a yearning that made him faint. For what? Who
can tell. The idea of possession was still years distant; the thought of
a caress had not yet come to him; the bare notion that Celia could care
for him had not as yet unfolded its dazzling wings; even the desire to
tell her was not yet born. Probably at no other period of a human
being's life is the passion of love so pure, so divorced from all
considerations of the material, or of self, so shiningly its ethereal
spiritual soul. Yet love it is; such love as the grown man feels for his
mate; with all the great inner breathless longings of the highest
passion.
The two lay curled side by side in their nests of hay. Time passed, but
they did not know of it. The little boy was drowned in the depths of
this new thing that had come to him. Celia filled the world to him. His
reverie brimmed with her. Yet somehow also there came to him other
things, unsought, and floated about him, and became more fully part of
him than they had ever been before. It was an incongruous assortment;
some of the knights of Sir Malory; the River above the booms, with the
brown logs; a plume of white steam against the dazzling blue sky; the
mellow six-o'clock church bell to which he arose every morning; the
snake-fence by the sandhill as it was in winter, with the wreaths of
snow; and all through everything the feel of the woods he had seen at
the picnic, their canopy of green so far above, their splashes of
sunlight through the rifts, the friendly summer warmth of their air,
their hot, spicy wood-smells wandering to and fro; their tall trunks,
their undergrowth, with the green tunnels far through them, the flashes
of their birds' wings, their green transparent shadows. These came to
him, vaguely, and their existence seemed explained. They were because
Celia was. And so, in the musty loft of an ill-kept stable, Bobby
entered another portion of the beautiful heritage that was some day to
be his.
IV
THE PRINTING PRESS
Next week was Bobby's birthday. He received many gifts, but as usual,
saved the biggest package until the last. It had come wrapped in stout
manila paper, tied with a heavy cord, and ornamented with the red
sticker and seals of the Express Company. With some importance Bobby
opened his new knife and cut the string. The removal of the wrapper
disclosed a light wooden box. This was filled with excelsior, which in
turn enclosed a paper parcel. A card read:
"For Bobby on his eleventh birthday, from Grandpa and Grandma."
Wrought to trembling eagerness by the continued delays, Bobby tore off
the paper. Within was a small toy cast-iron printing press. Its
ink-plate was flat and stationary. Its chase held two wooden grooves
into which the type could be clamped by means of end screws. The
mechanism was worked by a small square lever at the back. Bobby opened
a red pasteboard box to discover a miniature font of Old English type; a
round tin box to uncover sticky but delicious-smelling printer's ink; a
package to reveal the ink-roller and a parcel to complete the outfit
with a pack of cheap pasteboard cards.
"What do you think of that?" cried Mrs. Orde.
"Now you'll be able to go into business, won't you?" said his father.
"You might make me twenty-five calling cards for a starter."
Immediately breakfast was finished, then Bobby took his printing press
upstairs and installed it on his little table. He would have liked very
much to show Celia his gifts, but this Mrs. Orde peremptorily forbade.
After some manipulation he loosened the chase and laid it on the table.
Then he began to pick out the necessary type and arrange it in the upper
grove to spell his father's name. The replacement of the chase was easy
after his experience in taking it out. Ink he smeared on the top plate,
according to directions, rolling it back and forth with the composition
roller until it was evenly distributed. Nothing remained now but to
adjust the guides which would hold the cards on the tympan. Bobby
passed the inked roller evenly back and forth across the face of the
type, inserted a card and bore down confidently on the lever. He
contemplated this result:
[Illustration]
Besides the transpositions and inversions, the impression itself was
blurred and imperfect and smeared with ink.
After the first gasp of dismay, Bobby set to work in the dogged
analytical mood which difficulties already aroused in him. The remedy
for the inversion was plain enough. Bobby changed the type end for end
and turned the R and the E right side up, but he worked slower and
slower and his brow was wrinkled. Suddenly it cleared.
"Oh, I know!" said he aloud. "It's just like the looking-glass!"
Satisfied on this point, he finished the resetting quickly and tried
again. This time the name read correctly but it slanted down the card
and was blurred and inky. Bobby fussed for a long time to get the line
straight. Experiment seemed only to approximate. One end persisted in
rising too high or sinking too low. The problem was absorbing and all
the time Bobby was thinking busily along, to him, original lines. At
last, by means of a strip of paper and a pencil he measured equidistants
from top and bottom of the platen, adjusted the guides in accordance and
so that problem was solved. Bobby, flushed and triumphant, addressed
himself to remedying the blurring.
"Too much ink," said he.
Obviously the way to remedy too much ink was to rub some of it off and
the directest means to that end was the ever-useful pocket handkerchief.
The paste proved very sticky and the handkerchief was effective only at
the expense of great labour. Bobby ruined three more cards before he
established the principle that superfluous ink must be removed not only
from the plate but from the roller and type as well.
But now further difficulties intervened before perfection. Some of the
letters printed heavily and some scarcely showed at all. Here Bobby
entered the realm of experiments which could not be lightly solved in
the course of a half hour. He tried raising the type to a common level
and locking them as tightly as possible, but always they slipped. He
attempted to insert bits of paper under what proved to be the shorter
types. This improved the results somewhat, but was nevertheless far from
satisfactory. By now he had learned not to use a fresh card every time.
The first half-dozen were printed back and forth, front and behind.
Bobby was smeared with more ink than the printing press. Scissors,
pencils, paper, used cards and type were scattered everywhere. All the
time his fingers were working his brain, too, was busy, searching back
from the result to the cause, seeking the requisite modification. Mr.
Orde, returning at noon, burst out laughing at the sight.
"Well, youngster," said he, "how do you like being a printer?"
"Oh Bobby!" cried Mrs. Orde behind him. "You are a _sight_! Don't you
know it's time to get ready for lunch?"
Bobby looked up in bewildered surprise. Lunch! Why he had hardly begun!
His father was chuckling at him.
"Benzine will take it off," said Mr. Orde to his wife.
Bobby caught at the hint.
"Will benzine take off the ink?" he cried eagerly.
"It's supposed to," replied his father; "but in your case----"
"Can I have a little, in a bottle, and a toothbrush?" begged Bobby. He
saw in a flash the solution of the ink problem.
"We'll see," said Mrs. Orde. "Come with me, now."
They disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. Mr. Orde examined the
cards with some amusement.
"Well, sonny," said he to Bobby at lunch. "The printing doesn't seem to
be a howling success. What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know," replied Bobby; "but I'll fix it all right yet."
Bobby was busy with his birthday party all that afternoon, but next
morning he was afoot even before the Catholic Church bell called him.
The press occupied him until breakfast time, but he made small progress.
His father's morning paper filled him with envy by reason of its clear
impression. After breakfast he begged a tiny bottle of benzine and an
old toothbrush from his mother, and went at it again for nearly an hour.
The benzine worked like a charm. The type came out bright as new and the
old ink dissolved readily from the platen and roller. Bobby took note
that he should have cleared them the day before, as a night's neglect
had left them sticky. With it all he seemed to have arrived at a dead
wall. All his limited mechanical ingenuity was exhausted and still the
letters printed either too deep or too light. About half-past nine he
cleaned up and went down to the Ottawa.
His friends there were all sitting under the trees before the hotel,
resting rather vacantly after a hard romp. Celia perched high on a root,
her curls against the brown bark, her hat dangling by its elastic from a
forefinger, her lips parted, her eyes vacant. Gerald leaned gracefully
against the trunk. Bobby sat cross-legged on the ground watching
her--and him. Kitty and Margaret reclined flat on their backs, gazing up
through the leaves. Morris alone showed a trace of activity. He had
fished from his pockets the short, blunt stub of a pencil, a penny and a
piece of tissue paper. The latter he had superimposed over the penny and
by rubbing with the pencil was engaged in making a tracing of the
pattern on the coin. Through his preoccupation Bobby at last became
cognizant of this process. He sat and watched it with increasing
interest.
"By Jimmy!" he shouted leaping to his feet.
"What is it?" they cried, startled by the abrupt movement.
"I got to go home," said Bobby.
They expostulated vehemently, for his departure spoiled the even number
for a game. But he would not listen, even to Celia's reproachful voice.
"I'll be back after lunch," he called, and departed rapidly. Duke arose
from his warm corner, stretched deliberately, yawned, glanced at the
children, half wagged his tail and finally trotted after.
Bobby rushed home as fast as he could; broke into the house like a
whirlwind; tore upstairs and, breathless with speed and the excitement
of a new idea, flung himself into the chair before his little table. He
had seen the solution. To the flash of embryonic creative instinct
vouchsafed him, Morris's penny had represented type, the inequalities of
its design were the inequalities of alignment over which he had
struggled so long and the pressure of the pencil and tissue paper
paralleled the imposition of the card on the letters. But in the case of
Morris's penny the type did not conform to the paper and the pressure,
_the paper conformed to the type_.
His brain afire with eagerness, Bobby first stretched several clean
sheets of paper over the platen and clamped them down; then he inked the
type and pressed down the lever. Thus he gained an impression on the
platen itself. At this point he hesitated. On his father's desk down
stairs was mucilage, but mucilage was strictly forbidden. The hesitation
was but momentary, however, for the creative spirit in full blast does
not recognize ordinary restrictions. With his own round-pointed scissors
he cut out little squares of paper. These he pasted on the platen over
the letters whose impression had been too faint. A few moments adjusted
the guides. Bobby inked the type and inserted a fresh card. The moment
of test was at hand.
He paused and drew a long breath. From one point of view the matter was
a small one. From another it was of the exact importance of a little
boy's development, for it represented the first fruits of all the
hereditary influences that had silently and through the small
experiences of babyhood, led him over the edge of the dark, warm nest to
this first independent trial of the wings. He pressed the lever gently
and took out the card. It was not a very good job of printing; the ink
was not quite evenly distributed, the type were so heavily impressed
that they showed through the reverse of the card like stamping; _but
each letter had evidently received the same amount of pressure!_
Bobby uttered a little chuckle of joy--he had not time for more--and
plunged into the rectification of minor errors. And by noon the press
was working steadily, though slowly, and a very neat array of _Mr. John
Ordes_ was spread out on the window drying.