Pat furnished copy for Peter again within a month. Kate came in from the
Park all breathless with an account of a fight between the child and his
friend and playmate Bobby, last name not given.
"It was about an engine," explained Kate. "Bobby give it to Pat and then
he wanted to take it away again. Before we could get to them Pat hit
Bobby in the mouth so hard it made his mouth bleed. And that Bobby, him
almost six years old. And a head taller than Pat. He bled something
terrible, Mr. Neale. First I thought it was just Bobby's blood on Pat's
hand, but it kept on and when I looked closer there was all the skin off
of the knuckles of Pat. It must have been the teeth of that Bobby when
Pat hit him. I'll be putting iodine on it this very minute if you'll
watch till I get back, Mr. Neale."
"Put down that engine and come here, Pat," said Peter.
"I can't hear you."
"Yes, you can. I said put down that engine. Nobody's going to take it
away from you. Not just now, anyway. It's not yours but I suppose you've
won it. Come here, I want to see your hand."
Very reluctantly Pat placed the engine on the sofa and advanced slowly.
"It's all red," he said.
Peter took off the handkerchief. "Nonsense," he said, "you haven't more
than scratched it."
He was about to dismiss the matter from his mind and start for the
office when he noticed something he'd overlooked. "Kate, Kate," cried
Peter in great excitement, "this hand that Pat cut hitting that boy is
his left hand."
"Yes, 'tis his left hand he'd be using all the time when I'm not
noticing him," said Kate, returning with the iodine. "That's where the
strength is. It'll be hard to teach him out of it."
"I don't want him taught out of it, Kate. Don't you ever try to stop
him. It's bad to try to change children around. Anyway I don't want him
changed. This is fine for him. When he grows up and plays baseball he'll
be two steps nearer first base and besides the swing will throw him into
his stride. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, Kate, but
remember I want him to stay a left-hander."
Peter went down to the office and wrote, "There seems to be no shadow of
doubt from which hope can spring--I am the father of a southpaw." He
nursed the theme and the incident along for almost a column, and there
were other by-products of comfort. In the City Room Peter ran into Deane
Taylor, the venerable music critic of the Bulletin.
"Mr. Taylor," he asked, "did you ever see a left-handed violin player?"
"No, Peter," said the old man, "there's no such thing. Of course there
might be left-handed piano players, but certainly all the fiddlers and
all the conductors are right-handed. Come to think of it, I don't know
any left-handed musicians at all. But if you're writing something about
that you better ask somebody else. I might be wrong. You see I've never
gone into music from that angle."
"No," replied Peter, "this is just something I'm interested in
personally. Your impression's good enough for me. You don't have to
prove it. Thank you very much."
Peter went away greatly pleased. "There's one of Vonnie's guesses gone
wrong anyhow," he said.
From his observations of professional baseball, Peter had worked out the
theory that lefthanders were more difficult to handle than anybody else.
There was Rube Waddell for instance. Peter had seen him call the
outfielders in for the ninth inning and retire the side with only an
infield behind him. And everybody knew about the way Rube used to
disappear every now and then during the middle of a season and go
fishing. Only the day before he had had a Rube Waddell story in his
column. It was about Rube and the animal crackers. The man who told
Peter said the story came straight from Connie Mack and that there was
no doubt about its being true. Ollie Shreck, Rube's regular catcher,
wouldn't sign a contract one season. When they asked him the trouble he
said, "They always put me in to room with Rube on the road. Maybe they
think I understand him after catching him so much. Well, Mr. Mack, I
won't sign no contract unless you put in a clause that Rube can't eat
animal crackers in our bed."
Pat lived up to most of Peter's theories about southpaws. Before the
child had quite turned four Peter discovered that Kate had no control
over him. She had given him a little theology but no discipline. The
facts came out through her complaint that Pat wouldn't eat any of the
things which he was supposed to eat. A doctor called in to attend a
passing cold had remained to suggest a diet. He was horrified to learn
that Kate had allowed the child to eat meat two or three times a day,
with the exception of Friday, just as she did.
"Your child is just about one ton behind in spinach," said Dr. Whiting
to Peter. "He's got to catch up, but there won't be any particular
trouble about that. He's pretty sure to like spinach. All children do.
And I want him to have more milk."
Peter found upon inquiry that Pat had never known spinach. "I don't like
it," explained Kate.
"Well, he's got to have a lot of it," said Peter. "I want you to start
right in today."
The report next morning was unsatisfactory. "How did the spinach go?"
asked Peter. "He wouldn't eat any of it," answered Kate. "He said he
didn't like it."
"How could he tell he didn't like it if he didn't eat any," objected
Peter sharply.
"I don't know. But he said he didn't like it. He threw the plate on the
floor."
"How about the milk?"
"He wouldn't drink any."
"Didn't you tell him that he had to."
"I did that, Mr. Neale. I told him God wouldn't love him if he didn't
eat his nice spinach and that, begging your pardon, sir, you'd cry."
"Today," said Peter with a certain magnificence, "I'll stay home and eat
lunch with him myself. And for lunch we'll have just spinach and milk."
"Well, well," said Peter, with great gusto as lunch was served, "isn't
this fine--milk and spinach. Kate, how did you know just what we
wanted?"
"I don't want any lunch," said Pat.
"No spinach?"
Pat did not deign a reply.
"What do you want?"
"I want crackerjack and ice cream."
"Spinach is what you're going to get."
Pat began to cry, but Peter found that it was only a sign of rage and
not of weakness. The child's refusal remained steadfast. Finally, Peter
spanked him for the first time in his life. It was not a success. Pat
cried a lot more but he ate no spinach. Press of other work kept Peter
from pursuing the problem for three days, during which time the child
reverted to his old diet. In a second personally conducted test, Peter
Neale managed to induce Pat both to drink milk and eat spinach, but it
was not exactly a triumph. The result was gained by strategy, which was
ingenious but also abject. Moreover, it was almost wholly accidental.
Driven desperate by an unyielding stubbornness, Peter at length lost his
temper and shouted at the child. "All right then, don't eat any spinach.
I won't let you eat any spinach."
Pat scowled and, reaching all the way across the table, helped himself
to a large spoonful. "I'm eating spinach," he said, "I'm eating it right
now."
The only thing of which Peter had a right to boast was that he did not
allow any false pride to stand between him and the object which he
sought. He was quick to seize his opportunity. Pat's seeming free will
was harnessed to serve the predetermined purposes of an ego less
powerful but more unscrupulous.
"Maybe you are eating a little spinach," said Peter, "but I guess you
won't dare take any milk when I tell you not to."
Pat fell into the trap. "Look at me now, Peter, I'm drinking it all
up."
Once he learned the method Peter became a strict disciplinarian. Almost
invariably Pat disobeyed with alacrity when he heard the stalwart and
ringing command, "Now, Pat, I don't want you to go to bed and I don't
want you to go this very minute." Of course the thing became a little
complicated. Even after much practice Peter used to get somewhat mixed
up over such instructions as, "No, the nightgown I don't want you to
wear is the one over there."
The eating problem was subjected to still further complexities. Peter
was shrewd enough to realize that the scheme of indirect discourse might
become strained beyond all usefulness if employed too much. Pat
conformed and yet it became evident at length that he saw through the
trickery. On his fifth birthday, for instance, at his party he made no
rush for the ice cream which was placed before him but looked up
plaintively and said, "Peter, why don't you tell me not to eat my ice
cream."
Accordingly, other games were invented. The milk race proved generally
useful but rules had to be devised to prevent Pat from going too fast.
Eventually the contest was introduced by Peter as "a slow milk race." In
order to prevent Pat from choking to death he would cry every now and
then "Measure!" At that signal both would lower their glasses and set
one against the other on the table. Pat took over the announcing of
these results. He used only one decision--"I'm ahead"--and this bore no
accurate relation to the actual quantity of milk in the two glasses.
As a matter of fact, the milk race never was a very sporting
proposition. Pat always won and as the practice continued he began to
demand new guarantees of success. "You mustn't start till I'm through,
Peter," he would say. "I want to win." Peter also hit upon the device of
serving Pat with nothing but "special milk." His own came out of the
same bottle but had no title. Nobody but Pat was supposed under any
circumstances to be allowed to touch "special milk." The story,
circulated by Peter, was that the cow wouldn't like it.
Another incentive to appetite was playing burglar. This game was also
one of Peter's inventions, but Pat eventually became the aggressor. "You
must be asleep," he would say, "and I must be a burglar and come along
and steal some of your spinach. Shut your eyes."
Even years afterward Peter could never look at spinach without blinking.
Kate was not very apt at any of the eating games and the result was that
Peter found himself more bound to the flat than ever. Now he seldom got
down to the office except during the hours between lunch and dinner. The
feeding and more particularly, the urging of Pat came to be almost a
regular duty. Peter was never quite sure whether he liked or hated these
activities. Although they were confining and arduous he got an
undeniable satisfaction out of them. He was succeeding with something a
good deal more personal than a syndicate. He was succeeding where Kate,
the mother of five or six, had failed.
"Maybe women are all right for children when they get a little older,"
was the way Peter expressed it to himself, "but they haven't imagination
enough to handle a little one like Pat. That's a man's job."