THE STRATA--WHEN THE LETTER COMES
It was on the six o'clock delivery that William Henshaw received the
letter from his namesake, Billy. To say the least, the letter was a
great shock to him. He had not quite forgotten Billy's father, who had
died so long ago, it is true, but he had forgotten Billy, entirely. Even
as he looked at the disconcerting epistle with its round, neatly formed
letters, he had great difficulty in ferreting out the particular niche
in his memory which contained the fact that Walter Neilson had had a
child, and had named it for him.
And this child, this “Billy,” this unknown progeny of an all but
forgotten boyhood friend, was asking a home, and with him! Impossible!
And William Henshaw peered at the letter as if, at this second reading,
its message could not be so monstrous.
“Well, old man, what's up?” It was Bertram's amazed voice from the hall
doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly trembling,
seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing, wild-eyed, at the
letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing sight. “What IS up?”
“What's up!” groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the
letter frantically in the air. “What's up! Young man, do you want us to
take in a child to board?--a CHILD?” he repeated in slow horror.
“Well, hardly,” laughed the other. “Er, perhaps Cyril might like it,
though; eh?”
“Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once,” pleaded his brother,
nervously. “This is serious, really serious, I tell you!”
“What is serious?” demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. “Can't it
wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner.”
William made a despairing gesture.
“Well, come,” he groaned. “I'll tell you at the table.... It seems I've
got a namesake,” he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later;
“Walter Neilson's child.”
“And who's Walter Neilson?” asked Bertram.
“A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from his
child.”
“Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER; eh,
Cyril?”
Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned at
Bertram.
The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up the
letter.
“It--it's so absurd,” he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read
the letter aloud.
“DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I want
SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest I've got.
Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter Neilson was my
father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.
“Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between
times--I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm going to
be--well, I haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll consult you. You
may have some preference, you know. You can be thinking it up until I
come.
“There! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you won't want
me to come. I AM noisy, I'll own, but not so I think you'll mind it much
unless some of you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You see, Miss Letty and
Miss Ann--they're Mr. Harding's sisters, and Mr. Harding is our lawyer,
and he will write to you. Well, where was I? Oh, I know--on Miss Letty's
nerves. And, say, do you know, that is where I do get--on Miss Letty's
nerves. I do, truly. You see, Mr. Harding very kindly suggested that
I live with them, but, mercy! Miss Letty's nerves won't let you walk
except on tiptoe, and Miss Ann's heart won't let you speak except in
whispers. All the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in the
carpets, and it's a crime to move them. There isn't a window-shade in
the house that isn't pulled down EXACTLY to the middle sash, except
where the sun shines, and those are pulled way down. Imagine me and
Spunk living there! Oh, by the way, you don't mind my bringing Spunk,
do you? I hope you don't, for I couldn't live without Spunk, and he
couldn't live with out me.
“Please let me hear from you very soon. I don't mind if you telegraph;
and just 'come' would be all you'd have to say. Then I'd get ready right
away and let you know what train to meet me on. And, oh, say--if you'll
wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too. Then we'll know each other.
My address is just 'Hampden Falls.'
“Your awfully homesick namesake,
“BILLY HENSHAW NEILSON”
For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw
dinner-table; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one man to
the other, stammered:
“W-well?”
“Great Scott!” breathed Bertram.
Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense pressure
against each other.
There was another pause, and again William broke it anxiously.
“Boys, this isn't helping me out any! What's to be done?”
“'Done'!” flamed Cyril. “Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of
LETTING that child come here, William!”
Bertram chuckled.
“He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth floors
you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!”
“Tin nonsense!” retorted Cyril. “Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter
wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make himself at
home with your paint box, or with some of William's junk.”
“Oh, I say,” expostulated William, “we'll HAVE to keep him out of those
things, you know.”
Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.
“'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You
aren't going to let that boy come here,” he cried.
“But what can I do?” faltered the man.
“Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!”
“But I must do something. I--I'm all he's got. He says so.”
“Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the
penitentiary; anywhere but here!”
“Shucks! Let the kid come,” laughed Bertram. “Poor little homesick
devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?”
William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.
“Why, I don't know. He must be--er--why, boys, he's no child,” broke off
the man suddenly. “Walter himself died seventeen or eighteen years ago,
not more than a year or two after he was married. That child must be
somewhere around eighteen years old!”
“And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,” laughed
Bertram. “Never mind--eight or eighteen--let him come. If he's that age,
he won't bother much.”
“And this--er--'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't
bother, either,” murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.
“Gorry! I forgot Spunk,” acknowledged Bertram. “Say, what in time is
Spunk, do you suppose?”
“Dog, maybe,” suggested William.
“Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs,” said
Cyril with decision. “The boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the
dog--!”
“Hm-m; well, judging by his name,” murmured Bertram, apologetically, “it
may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But maybe he
isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds something like a parrot to me.”
Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner.
“Very well,” he said coldly. “But please remember that I hold you
responsible, Bertram. Whether it's a dog, or a parrot, or--or a monkey,
I shall expect you to keep Spunk down-stairs. This adopting into the
family an unknown boy seems to me very absurd from beginning to end.
But if you and William will have it so, of course I've nothing to say.
Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of the house,” he finished, as he
turned and left the dining-room.
For a moment there was silence. The brows of the younger man were
uplifted quizzically.
“I'm afraid Cyril is bothered,” murmured William then, in a troubled
voice.
Bertram's face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth.
“He is always bothered--with anything, lately.”
The elder man sighed.
“I know, but with his talent--”
“'Talent'! Great Scott!” cut in Bertram. “Half the world has talent of
one sort or another; but that doesn't necessarily make them unable
to live with any one else! Really, Will, it's becoming serious--about
Cyril. He's getting to be, for all the world, like those finicky old
maids that that young namesake of yours wrote about. He'll make us
whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!”
The other smiled.
“Don't you worry. You aren't in any danger of being kept too quiet,
young man.”
“No thanks to Cyril, then,” retorted Bertram. “Anyhow, that's one
reason why I was for taking the kid--to mellow up Cyril. He needs it all
right.”
“But I had to take him, Bert,” argued the elder brother, his face
growing anxious again. “But Heaven only knows what I'm going to do with
him when I get him. What shall I say to him, anyway? How shall I write?
I don't know how to get up a letter of that sort!”
“Why not take him at his word and telegraph? I fancy you won't have to
say 'come' but once before you see him. He doesn't seem to be a bashful
youth.”
“Hm-m; I might do that,” acquiesced William, slowly. “But wasn't there
somebody--a lawyer--going to write to me?” he finished, consulting the
letter by his plate. “Yes,” he added, after a moment, “a Mr. Harding.
Wonder if he's any relation to Ned Harding. I used to know Ned at
Harvard, and seems as if he came from Hampden Falls. We'll soon see, at
all events. Maybe I'll hear to-morrow.”
“I shouldn't wonder,” nodded Bertram, as he rose from the table.
“Anyhow, I wouldn't do anything till I did hear.”