AT SOUND VIEW
When Dan woke up he found that it was supper time. The room was
lighted softly and a man--Dan concluded that he was the butler, and
having never seen a butler before examined him with disconcerting
intentness--was placing a tray on a stand beside the bed. Dan had a
very healthy appetite, he found when he had got the sleep out of his
head, and was a little disappointed to discover that the repast was
quite spartan in its simplicity. There was a good deal of gleaming
white napery and much silver and many dishes, but when it came right
down to brass tacks, as Dan’s father would have said, there was only
hot bouillon, a soup-stick, some graham bread cut into wafer-like
slices and buttered, two slices of cold chicken, a “dab” of white
current jelly and a saucer of some sort of cornstarchy stuff that did
more than aught else had done to impress upon Dan the fact that he was
supposed to be an invalid. He had vivid recollections of that sort of
pudding. It was inextricably mixed in his memory with mumps and scarlet
fever.
“Shall I lift you up, sir?” asked the servant.
But Dan assured him that he was still capable of lifting himself up,
and proved it. The man put the pillows behind him and then in a most
surprising way swung the top of the stand around over the bed so that
the tray was right under Dan’s nose. By this time, having got his eyes
fully open, Dan saw that the man wore a swallow-tail coat and showed a
vivid expanse of white shirt-front. Perhaps he wasn’t a servant, after
all, Dan reflected.
“If there’s anything you want, sir, just ring the bell,” said the man.
The bell, a little silver affair, stood on the tray. “One of the maids
is in the hall, sir, and will hear it.”
“Thank you,” said Dan. “Are you the butler?”
“No, sir, I’m the second man.”
“Oh,” said Dan vaguely. “Thank you.” Then he took up his spoon and
set to work and the servant left the room with noiseless tread. As he
ate, Dan looked about him and sighed comfortably. There were lights
on all sides of the big room but the pink silk shades subdued them so
that the room was filled with a soft, roseate glow. On the big dresser
the silver toilet articles and cut glass bottles caught the light
and glimmered richly. The big roses on the walls were repeated in the
draperies at the windows and looked so fresh and natural that Dan was
almost convinced that he could pick them off were he able to reach
them. Over the footboard of the gleaming brass bedstead lay a silk
quilt, and that too, was a mass of pink roses. This, he concluded,
was the guest chamber. He recalled the guest chamber at home. It had
always seemed to him a very magnificent apartment until now. Then he
recollected the fact that his soup was getting cold and that he was
very hungry.
Ten minutes later that repast was only a memory and not a crumb was
left to tell the tale. And he was still hungry. He wondered what would
happen if he rang the bell and demanded a sirloin steak and a baked
potato. Probably he would get it, but a sirloin steak in that room
would seem a desecration, and he resisted the temptation. He found that
he had only to swing the tray around to get it out of the way. That was
interesting, and he amused himself for a minute in swinging it back
and forth. Then he thumped the pillows and settled down in bed again.
His burns smarted a good deal, but he told himself that it was worth a
little pain to be installed in the midst of such luxury and be waited
on by the second man. Presently he became sleepy again and dozed and
awoke and dozed again and felt very comfortable and contented. Once,
just what time it was he didn’t know, he got quite widely awake and
found that tray and stand had disappeared and that all the lights were
out save one. That, thought Dan sleepily, meant that it was bedtime. So
he did the sensible thing and went to sleep in a business-like way and
didn’t wake up again until the sunlight was streaming in at the two big
east windows.
Breakfast appeared after awhile and Dan learned that he was free to get
up and make his toilet and dress himself. The breakfast was as generous
as the dinner had been frugal, and after he had finished it Dan was
doubtful of his ability to get up. But a quarter of an hour later
he was dressed and a maid knocked on the door and brought a message
that Mr. Pennimore would like to see him downstairs. So Dan slicked
his hair down again, glanced ruefully at his burnt coat and trousers
and found the maid waiting for him outside. Dan was heartily glad of
her assistance, for he was certain that he would never have reached
Mr. Pennimore alone because the house was like a hotel, and doors and
passages and stairways turned up everywhere. Mr. Pennimore was in the
library, a big high-ceilinged apartment whose walls were hidden behind
book-cases and tapestries. There was a cracking log fire in an immense
stone fireplace half way down one side of the room, and in front of
this Mr. Pennimore was standing reading some letters as the maid held
aside the curtains at the door and Dan entered. Mr. Pennimore looked up
and came forward to meet him.
“Well, my boy,” he said, “how do you feel?”
“All right, sir, thanks,” answered Dan as he shook hands. Mr. Pennimore
led him to a big leather chair in front of the fire and pushed him
gently into it. Then he laid the letters he held on the high stone
mantel and took his stand on the hearth rug. What bothered Dan about
Mr. Pennimore was the fact that he didn’t look at all as one would
imagine a Steamship King ought to. There was nothing nautical in Mr.
Pennimore’s appearance. Instead he looked like a retired banker. He
was rather a small man, very trim, scrupulously attentive to details
of attire, with a thoughtful face and a pair of black eyes that
were kindly and shrewd. In age he appeared to be between fifty and
fifty-five and his dark hair, grizzled a little at the temples, had
not retreated very far from the forehead. He wore a mustache and a
short beard and had, Dan soon noticed, a habit of tugging gently at the
latter with thumb and forefinger. He was doing it now while Dan waited
for him to speak.
“Well, Vinton, my boy has told me what happened yesterday and I quite
agree with your estimate of him. He is a silly kid, as you remarked.”
Mr. Pennimore smiled. Dan colored up.
“I didn’t mean that, Mr. Pennimore. What I meant was that he was silly
to go into that house, sir.”
“I understand, my boy. But he is silly. By that I mean that he does
a great many silly things such as he did yesterday. Unfortunately he
hasn’t a mother; she died soon after he was born; and I am away from
home a good deal. Gerald has an excellent tutor, but of course Mr.
Faunce can’t look after him every minute, and so Gerald is frequently
in scrapes. Yesterday he managed to outdo himself. The idea of shutting
that poor dog in the play-house and then setting fire to it! Gerald
had been reading some story or other about firemen, he tells me, and
wanted to try his hand at a rescue. Of course he had no idea that the
fire would get out of his control; and it doesn’t seem to have occurred
to him that the dog might smother to death before he was rescued. He
is very fond of Jack; I gave the dog to him on his twelfth birthday;
and he wouldn’t intentionally cause him any pain. The whole thing seems
to have been a piece of childish thoughtlessness. What do you think,
Vinton?”
“I don’t think he realized what he was doing,” answered Dan eagerly.
“I was sort of out of patience with him, sir, but I’m pretty sure he
didn’t mean to hurt the dog anyway.”
Mr. Pennimore suppressed a smile. Gerald had told him that Dan had said
he ought to be licked!
“Well, I’m pretty fond of that boy of mine,” continued Mr. Pennimore.
“He’s the only child I’ve got, you see. I suppose I’m rather foolish
about him, but parents are liable to get that way. And so what am I to
say to you, my boy? What can I say that will express my feelings, my
gratitude?”
Mr. Pennimore’s voice shook, and Dan, rather alarmed and very red and
uncomfortable, wished himself away from there. Perhaps Mr. Pennimore
saw his embarrassment, for he cleared his throat and went on in quite
an ordinary tone of voice.
“All I can do is to thank you, Vinton, and I do that very earnestly. If
you were a poor boy I could show my gratitude by making you a present.
But as it is I suppose there’s nothing you want, nothing I can give you
that you will accept?”
“Thank you, sir,” muttered Dan. “I don’t want anything.”
“You’re a lucky person,” said Mr. Pennimore with a little laugh. He
sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You have
everything in the world that you want, then?”
“Yes, sir, at least--.” Dan stopped and his face broke into a smile.
“Oh, so there is something after all?”
“The only thing I want,” replied Dan with a laugh, “is to make the
football team.”
“I see. Well, that, I fear, is something beyond me. I’m sorry, for
there’s nothing in reason I wouldn’t gladly do for the boy that saved
my boy’s life. I’d like you to feel sure of that, Vinton.”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I deserve much--much gratitude. You
see, Mr. Pennimore, I ought to have kept him from going in there. But
I didn’t have any idea he’d really do it. Why, the place was like a--a
furnace, sir! It was mighty plucky of him to do it, sir!”
“Maybe it was, but I’m inclined to think,” answered Mr. Pennimore
dryly, “that he didn’t know what he was in for. The real pluck and
heroism, my boy, was yours, for you realized what it meant to go into
that house. Didn’t you?”
“I suppose I did,” acknowledged Dan. “In fact--in fact I--I was scared
to death, sir, and that’s the truth. I guess there wasn’t much heroism
about me. I’d have given anything if I could have cut and run!”
“Then why didn’t you?” asked the other gently.
“Why--I--I couldn’t!” answered Dan, with a look of surprise at the
questioner. “You wouldn’t have, would you, sir?”
“Not if my boy had been in there,” answered Mr. Pennimore thoughtfully,
“but--if it had been anyone else, who knows whether I’d have found the
courage?”
Dan laughed.
“You’d have gone all right, sir,” he answered with conviction.
“Well, I’d prefer to think that I would have, but I’m not too sure,
Vinton. I’ve lived a good deal longer than you, my boy, and I’ve seen
the time when a little heroism was hard to come at. Perhaps moral
heroism is more difficult than physical, but--However, we’re not
discussing such weighty questions this morning, eh? What’s your first
name?”
“Dan, sir.”
“Dan, Dan Vinton. That’s a good-sounding name,” mused Mr. Pennimore.
“I’ve often thought that there was a good deal in names. I mean that
a person’s name maybe expresses his character if we were only able to
read it aright. Now your name to me expresses courage and grit and
fearlessness. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, I think so. But, you see, I was afraid, sir.”
“Yes, afraid to be afraid, my boy. That’s the right kind of fear. To
take a risk when you’re not afraid is one thing and to take that risk
when your heart’s in your boots is another. The biggest hero of all is
the man that does a thing when he’s scared to death, merely because he
knows that it’s right. Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose so, sir. I never thought much about it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pennimore with a sudden laugh, “don’t think about it
now; this is too fine a morning for problems. You’ll find when you get
to know me better, Dan, that I have a weakness for problems. I call
you Dan because you and I are going to be pretty good friends, I hope.
Now tell me something about yourself. Where do you live when you’re at
home?”
“In Graystone, Ohio, sir.”
“You have a mother and father living?”
“Yes, sir, and a sister. She’s thirteen.”
“What’s your father’s business, Dan?”
“He’s a little of everything, sir. He owns the flouring mills at
Graystone and he’s president of the First National Bank and owns a lot
of buildings and things all around. His name’s John W. Vinton, sir.”
And Dan watched eagerly to see if Mr. Pennimore showed acquaintance
with the name.
“Doubtless I’ve heard of your father,” said Mr. Pennimore, politely.
“Is he like you, my boy? Has he got everything that he wants?”
Dan had to consider a moment. He had never thought about that.
“I don’t know, sir,” he answered finally. “But I guess he has. He
doesn’t go in for much outside of his business. And when he wants
anything he usually gets it,” added Dan with a trace of pride. “I guess
the only thing he ever wanted that he hasn’t got is the new railroad.”
“What railroad is that?” asked Mr. Pennimore.
“The Sedalia, Dayton and Western. Father has been trying to get them to
come through Graystone. He says the town needs a competing line, sir.
But when I left home they’d finished the survey and father said the
road was going past Graystone on the north.”
“Is your father interested in the road? Does he own stock in it?”
“I don’t think so. It’s an Eastern company that’s building. It’s a
connecting line between two other systems.”
“Ah, I don’t seem to remember the--the Sedalia, Dayton and Western,
you said?” Mr. Pennimore took out a small note-book and jotted down
a word or two. “I must look it up. Perhaps I may know some of the
interested parties. In that case, unless there are very good reasons
why the road should leave Graystone out, I don’t see why your father
shouldn’t have what he wants.” He smiled at Dan and slipped the book
back into his pocket.
“That would be bully!” cried Dan. “Could--could you do that, sir?”
“I think so. I’ll look into it and let you know. Perhaps you will be
able to present the Sedalia, Dayton and Western railroad to Graystone
as a Christmas present. Like that, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dan eagerly. “Father would be awfully tickled.
And--and so would I. Only I--I wouldn’t want you to do it just on
account of what I did, Mr. Pennimore. It--it wasn’t worth it.”
“Perhaps I’m the better judge of what it was worth, my boy. Now I must
be off. I telephoned to the school last evening, so that’s all right. I
guess they won’t give you a licking, eh? Now I’m going to send Gerald
down to see you and after awhile he will run you over to school in the
car. I want you and Gerald to be friends, if you will. And you must
come and see me often. I want you to take dinner some evening soon.
Good-bye for the present, Dan.”
They shook hands, and Mr. Pennimore, with a kindly nod, went towards
the door. But he had turned the next moment.
“Of course, Dan,” he said. “I want to replace those clothes that were
burnt in my service. I’ll just mail you a check. And, by the way, the
doctor promised to look in this morning. You’d better wait until he
comes.”
“Yes, sir; but, if you don’t mind, I’d--I’d rather you wouldn’t pay
for these clothes, sir. They are my oldest ones, and--and, anyway, I’d
rather you wouldn’t.”
“Then I won’t,” was the answer. “I won’t insist, for I know you are
able to replace them yourself. Good morning, Dan.”
After Mr. Pennimore’s departure Dan roamed around the big room,
looking at the backs of the books and admiring without understanding
the old tapestries. Presently he skirted the monstrous table--quite
the largest table in the world, he was sure--and went to one of the
half-dozen French windows that opened onto the broad red-tiled veranda
with its massive stone balustrade and its bay-trees in big terra-cotta
tubs. Beyond lay the green lawn and the flower-beds, the seawall and
the blue, blue ocean. The sun was shining brightly and against an
almost cloudless sky a flock of gulls dipped and wheeled. Dan’s heart
responded to the glamour of the morning. It was a fine old world, he
thought, and after all, a fellow didn’t have to be on a football team
to be happy! At that moment there was a voice behind him and Dan turned
from the window to Gerald Pennimore.