"Boston."
"Lived there all your life?"
"Only for the last three years or so."
"Where'd you live before that?"
"New York some of the time."
"Where were you born?"
"The Bronx."
"What was your father's name?"
"Theodore Whitelaw."
There was again that spark in the eyes, flashing and then dying out.
"How did he get that name?"
"Don't know. Just a name. Suppose his mother gave it to him."
"Lots of Theodore Whitelaws. Have come across two or three. Like the
Colin Campbells and Howard Smiths you run into everywhere. What did
your father do?"
"Never heard. Died when I was a kid." Tom felt entitled to ask a
question on his own side. "What do you want to know for?"
The other seemed on his guard. "Oh, nothing! Was just--was just struck
by the resemblance to--to my boy."
The swerve which took them away from each other was as slight as that
which a ship gets from her rudder. Tom continued to play round in the
water till he saw the older man reach the bathing cabins, dress, and go
away.
That afternoon he was told to drive back to Keene both Mr. Ansley and
the guest whom he, Tom, had brought over on the previous evening. As
the latter came out to enter the car it was easy to recognize the
swimmer of the morning.
Tom held the door open, his hand to his cap. The gentleman gave him a
swift, keen look.
"Oh, so this is what you do!"
"Yes, sir; this is what I do. Mr. Ansley got me the job."
"Young fellow whom Guy has befriended," Mr. Ansley explained, as he
took his place beside his friend.
But in the Pullman, when Tom had carried in the gentleman's valise,
there was another minute in which they were alone. The car was nearly
empty; there were still some five minutes before the departure of the
train. While the colored porter took the suitcase the traveler turned
to Tom. He was a tall man, straight and flexible like Tom himself, but
a little heavier.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen, sir."
A shadow flew across the face. "Tad is seventeen, too. That settles
any--" Without stating what was settled by this coincidence of ages,
he went on with his quick, peremptory questions. "What do you do when
you leave here?"
"I go back for my last year in the Latin School in Boston."
"And then?"
"I go to Harvard."
"Putting yourself through?"
"Only partly, sir."
"Friends?"
"Yes, sir."
The questions ceased. The face, which even a boy like Tom could see to
be that of a strong man who must have suffered terribly, grew pensive.
When the eyes were bent toward the floor Tom took note of a pair of
bushy, outstanding, horizontal eyebrows, oddly like his own.
The reverie ended abruptly. Some thought seemed to be dismissed. It
seemed to be dismissed with both decision and relief. But the man held
out his hand.
"Good-by."
"Good-by, sir."
It was not the questions, nor the interest, it was the last little act
of farewell that gave Tom a glowing feeling in the heart as he went
back to his car and Mr. Ansley.