the church.
"When you are tempted, there are three words which may be useful to
you. They are these, 'God help me,'" the minister told him. "They are
quickly said and I have often found them a source of strength in time of
trouble. I am going to find work for you and there's a room over my
garage with a stove in it which will make a very snug little home for
you and Christmas."
That evening, as the dog and his master were sitting comfortably by the
stove in their new home, there came a rap at the door. In a moment,
Judge Crooker entered the room.
"Mr. Blenkinsop," said the Judge as he held out his hand, "I have heard
of your new plans and I want you to know that I am very glad. Every one
will be glad."
When the Judge had gone, Blenkinsop put his hand on the dog's head and
asked with a little laugh: "Did ye hear what he said, Christmas? He
called me _Mister_. Never done that before, no sir!"
Mr. Blenkinsop sat with his head upon his hand listening to the wind
that whistled mournfully in the chimney. Suddenly he shouted: "Come in!"
The door opened and there on the threshold stood his Old Self.
It was not at all the kind of a Self one would have expected to see. It
was, indeed, a very youthful and handsome Self--the figure of a
clear-eyed, gentle-faced boy of about sixteen with curly, dark hair
above his brows.
Mr. Blenkinsop covered his face and groaned. Then he held out his hands
with an imploring gesture.
"I know you," he whispered. "Please come in."
"Not yet," the young man answered, and his voice was like the wind in
the chimney. "But I have come to tell you that I, too, am glad."
Then he vanished.
Mr. Blenkinsop arose from his chair and rubbed his eyes.
"Christmas, ol' boy, I've been asleep," he muttered. "I guess it's time
we turned in!"
CHAPTER FOUR
IN WHICH MR. ISRAEL SNEED AND OTHER WORKING MEN RECEIVE A LESSON IN TRUE
DEMOCRACY
Next morning, Mr. Blenkinsop went to cut wood for the Widow Moran. The
good woman was amazed by his highly respectable appearance.
"God help us! Ye look like a lawyer," she said.
"I'm a new man! Cut out the blacksmith shop an' the booze an' the
bummers."
"May the good God love an' help ye! I heard about it."
"Ye did?"
"Sure I did. It's all over the town. Good news has a lively foot, man.
The Shepherd clapped his hands when I told him. Ye got to go straight,
my laddie buck. All eyes are on ye now. Come up an' see the boy. It's
his birthday!"
Mr. Blenkinsop was deeply moved by the greeting of the little Shepherd,
who kissed his cheek and said that he had often prayed for him.
"If you ever get lonely, come and sit with me and we'll have a talk and
a game of dominoes," said the boy.
Mr. Blenkinsop got strength out of the wonderful spirit of Bob Moran and
as he swung his axe that day, he was happier than he had been in many
years. Men and women who passed in the street said, "How do you do, Mr.
Blenkinsop? I'm glad to see you."
Even the dog Christmas watched his master with a look of pride and
approval. Now and then, he barked gleefully and scampered up and down
the sidewalk.
The Shepherd was fourteen years old. On his birthday, from morning until
night, people came to his room bringing little gifts to remind him of
their affection. No one in the village of Bingville was so much beloved.
Judge Crooker came in the evening with ice-cream and a frosted cake.
While he was there, a committee of citizens sought him out to confer
with him regarding conditions in Bingville.
"There's more money than ever in the place, but there never was so much
misery," said the chairman of the committee.
"We have learned that money is not the thing that makes happiness,"
Judge Crooker began. "With every one busy at high wages, and the banks
overflowing with deposits, we felt safe. We ceased to produce the
necessaries of life in a sufficient quantity. We forgot that the all
important things are food, fuel, clothes and comfortable housing--not
money. Some of us went money mad. With a feeling of opulence we refused
to work at all, save when we felt like it. We bought diamond rings and
sat by the fire looking at them. The roofs began to leak and our
plumbing went wrong. People going to buy meat found the shops closed.
Roofs that might have been saved by timely repairs will have to be
largely replaced. Plumbing systems have been ruined by neglect. With all
its money, the town was never so poverty-stricken, the people never so
wretched."
Mr. Sneed, who was a member of the committee, slyly turned the ring on
his finger so that the diamond was concealed. He cleared his throat and
remarked, "We mechanics had more than we could do on work already
contracted."
"Yes, you worked eight hours a day and refused to work any longer. You
were legally within your rights, but your position was ungrateful and
even heartless and immoral. Suppose there were a baby coming at your
house and you should call for the doctor and he should say, 'I'm sorry,
but I have done my eight hours' work to-day and I can't help you.' Then
suppose you should offer him a double fee and he should say, 'No,
thanks, I'm tired. I've got forty thousand dollars in the bank and I
don't have to work when I don't want to.'
"Or suppose I were trying a case for you and, when my eight hours' work
had expired, I should walk out of the court and leave your case to take
care of itself. What do you suppose would become of it? Yet that is
exactly what you did to my pipes. You left them to take care of
themselves. You men, who use your hands, make a great mistake in
thinking that you are the workers of the country and that the rest of us
are your natural enemies. In America, we are all workers! The idle man
is a mere parasite and not at heart an American. Generally, I work
fifteen hours a day.
"This little lad has been knitting night and day for the soldiers
without hope of reward and has spent his savings for yarn. There isn't
a doctor in Bingville who isn't working eighteen hours a day. I met a
minister this afternoon who hasn't had ten hours of sleep in a
week--he's been so busy with the sick, and the dying and the dead. He is
a nurse, a friend, a comforter to any one who needs him. No charge for
overtime. My God! Are we all going money mad? Are you any better than he
is, or I am, or than these doctors are who have been killing themselves
with overwork? Do you dare to tell me that prosperity is any excuse for
idleness in this land of ours, if one's help is needed?"
Judge Crooker's voice had been calm, his manner dignified. But the last
sentences had been spoken with a quiet sternness and with his long, bony
forefinger pointing straight at Mr. Sneed. The other members of the
committee clapped their hands in hearty approval. Mr. Sneed smiled and
brushed his trousers.
"I guess you're right," he said. "We're all off our balance a little,
but what is to be done now?"
"We must quit our plumbing and carpentering and lawyering and banking
and some of us must quit merchandising and sitting in the chimney corner
and grab our saws and axes and go out into the woods and make some fuel
and get it hauled into town," said Judge Crooker. "I'll be one of a
party to go to-morrow with my axe. I haven't forgotten how to chop."
The committee thought this a good suggestion. They all rose and started
on a search for volunteers, except Mr. Sneed. He tarried saying to the
Judge that he wished to consult him on a private matter. It was, indeed,
just then, a matter which could not have been more public although, so
far, the news of it had traveled in whispers. The Judge had learned the
facts since his return.
"I hope your plumbing hasn't gone wrong," he remarked with a smile.
"No, it's worse than that," said Mr. Sneed ruefully.
They bade the little Shepherd good night and went down-stairs where the
widow was still at work with her washing, although it was nine o'clock.
"Faithful woman!" the Judge exclaimed as they went out on the street.
"What would the world do without people like that? No extra charge for
overtime either."
Then, as they walked along, he cunningly paved the way for what he knew
was coming.
"Did you notice the face of that boy?" he asked.
"Yes, it's a wonderful face," said Israel Sneed.
"It's a God's blessing to see a face like that," the Judge went on.
"Only the pure in heart can have it. The old spirit of youth looks out
of his eyes--the spirit of my own youth. When I was fourteen, I think
that my heart was as pure as his. So were the hearts of most of the boys
I knew."
"It isn't so now," said Mr. Sneed.
"I fear it isn't," the Judge answered. "There's a new look in the faces
of the young. Every variety of evil is spread before them on the stage
of our little theater. They see it while their characters are in the
making, while their minds are like white wax. Everything that touches
them leaves a mark or a smirch. It addresses them in the one language
they all understand, and for which no dictionary is needed--pictures.
The flower of youth fades fast enough, God knows, without the withering
knowledge of evil. They say it's good for the boys and girls to know all
about life. We shall see!"
Mr. Sneed sat down with Judge Crooker in the handsome library of the
latter and opened his heart. His son Richard, a boy of fifteen, and
three other lads of the village, had been committing small burglaries
and storing their booty in a cave in a piece of woods on the river bank
near the village. A constable had secured a confession and recovered a
part of the booty. Enough had been found to warrant a charge of grand
larceny and Elisha Potts, whose store had been entered, was clamoring
for the arrest of the boys.
"It reminds me of that picture of the Robbers' Cave that was on the
billboard of our school of crime a few weeks ago," said the Judge. "I'm
tired enough to lie down, but I'll go and see Elisha Potts. If he's
abed, he'll have to get up, that's all. There's no telling what Potts
has done or may do. Your plumbing is in bad shape, Mr. Sneed. The public
sewer is backing into your cellar and in a case of that kind the less
delay the better."
He went into the hall and put on his coat and gloves and took his cane
out of the rack. He was sixty-five years of age that winter. It was a
bitter night when even younger men found it a trial to leave the comfort
of the fireside. Sneed followed in silence. Indeed, his tongue was
shame-bound. For a moment, he knew not what to say.
"I--I'm much o-obliged to you," he stammered as they went out into the
cold wind. "I-I don't care what it costs, either."
The Judge stopped and turned toward him.
"Look here," he said. "Money does not enter into this proceeding or any
motive but the will to help a neighbor. In such a matter overtime
doesn't count."
They walked in silence to the corner. There Sneed pressed the Judge's
hand and tried to say something, but his voice failed him.
"Have the boys at my office at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I want to
talk to them," said the kindly old Judge as he strode away in the
darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN WHICH J. PATTERSON BING BUYS A NECKLACE OF PEARLS
Meanwhile, the Bings had been having a busy winter in New York. J.
Patterson Bing had been elected to the board of a large bank in Wall
Street. His fortune had more than doubled in the last two years and he
was now a considerable factor in finance.
Mrs. Bing had been studying current events and French and the English
accent and other social graces every morning, with the best tutors, as
she reclined comfortably in her bedchamber while Phyllis went to sundry
shops. Mrs. Crooker had once said, "Mamie Bing has a passion for
self-improvement." It was mainly if not quite true.
Phyllis had been "beating the bush" with her mother at teas and dinners
and dances and theaters and country house parties in and about the city.
The speedometer on the limousine had doubled its mileage since they came
to town. They were, it would seem, a tireless pair of hunters. Phyllis's
portrait had appeared in the Sunday papers. It showed a face and form of
unusual beauty. The supple grace and classic outlines of the latter were
touchingly displayed at the dances in many a handsome ballroom. At last,
they had found a promising and most eligible candidate in Roger
Delane--a handsome stalwart youth, a year out of college. His father was
a well-known and highly successful merchant of an old family which, for
generations, had "belonged"--that is to say, it had been a part of the
aristocracy of Fifth Avenue.
There could be no doubt of this great good luck of theirs--better,
indeed, than Mrs. Bing had dared to hope for--the young man having
seriously confided his intentions to J. Patterson. But there was one
shadow on the glowing prospect; Phyllis had suddenly taken a bad turn.
She moped, as her mother put it. She was listless and unhappy. She had
lost her interest in the chase, so to speak. She had little heart for
teas and dances and dinner parties. One day, her mother returned from a
luncheon and found her weeping. Mrs. Bing went at once to the telephone
and called for the stomach specialist. He came and made a brief
examination and said that it was all due to rich food and late hours. He
left some medicine, advised a day or two of rest in bed, charged a
hundred dollars and went away. They tried the remedies, but Phyllis
showed no improvement. The young man sent American Beauty roses and a
graceful note of regret to her room.
"You ought to be very happy," said her mother. "He is a dear."
"I know it," Phyllis answered. "He's just the most adorable creature I
ever saw in my life."
"For goodness' sake! What is the matter of you? Why don't you brace up?"
Mrs. Bing asked with a note of impatience in her tone. "You act like a
dead fish."
Phyllis, who had been lying on the couch, rose to a sitting posture and
flung one of the cushions at her mother, and rather swiftly.
"How can I brace up?" she asked with indignation in her eyes. "Don't
_you_ dare to scold me."
There was a breath of silence in which the two looked into each other's
eyes. Many thoughts came flashing into the mind of Mrs. Bing. Why had
the girl spoken the word "you" so bitterly? Little echoes of old history
began to fill the silence. She arose and picked up the cushion and threw
it on the sofa.
"What a temper!" she exclaimed. "Young lady, you don't seem to know
that these days are very precious for you. They will not come again."
Then, in the old fashion of women who have suddenly come out of a moment
of affectionate anger, they fell to weeping in each other's arms. The
storm was over when they heard the feet of J. Patterson Bing in the
hall. Phyllis fled into the bathroom.
"Hello!" said Mr. Bing as he entered the door. "I've found out what's
the matter with Phyllis. It's nerves. I met the great specialist, John
Hamilton Gibbs, at luncheon to-day. I described the symptoms. He says
it's undoubtedly nerves. He has any number of cases just like this
one--rest, fresh air and a careful diet are all that's needed. He says
that if he can have her for two weeks, he'll guarantee a cure. I've
agreed to have you take her to his sanitarium in the Catskills
to-morrow. He has saddle horses, sleeping balconies, toboggan slides,
snow-shoe and skating parties and all that."
"I think it will be great," said Phyllis, who suddenly emerged from her
hiding-place and embraced her father. "I'd love it! I'm sick of this old
town. I'm sure it's just what I need."
"I couldn't go to-morrow," said Mrs. Bing. "I simply must go to Mrs.
Delane's luncheon."
"Then I'll ask Harriet to go up with her," said J. Patterson.
Harriet, who lived in a flat on the upper west side, was Mr. Bing's
sister.
Phyllis went to bed dinnerless with a headache. Mr. and Mrs. Bing sat
for a long time over their coffee and cigarettes.
"It's something too dreadful that Phyllis should be getting sick just at
the wrong time," said the madame. "She has always been well. I can't
understand it."
"She's had a rather strenuous time here," said J. Patterson.
"But she seemed to enjoy it until--until the right man came along. The
very man I hoped would like her! Then, suddenly, she throws up her hands
and keels over. It's too devilish for words."
Mr. Bing laughed at his wife's exasperation.
"To me, it's no laughing matter," said she with a serious face.
"Perhaps she doesn't like the boy," J. Patterson remarked.
Mrs. Bing leaned toward him and whispered: "She adores him!" She held
her attitude and looked searchingly into her husband's face.
"Well, you can't say I did it," he answered. "The modern girl is a
rather delicate piece of machinery. I think she'll be all right in a
week or two. Come, it's time we went to the theater if we're going."
Nothing more was said of the matter. Next morning immediately after
breakfast, "Aunt Harriet" set out with Phyllis in the big limousine for
Doctor Gibbs' sanitarium.
Phyllis found the remedy she needed in the ceaseless round of outdoor
frolic. Her spirit washed in the glowing air found refreshment in the
sleep that follows weariness and good digestion. Her health improved so
visibly that her stay was far prolonged. It was the first week of May
when Mrs. Bing drove up to get her. The girl was in perfect condition,
it would seem. No rustic maid, in all the mountain valleys, had lighter
feet or clearer eyes or a more honest, ruddy tan in her face due to the
touch of the clean wind. She had grown as lithe and strong as a young
panther.
They were going back to Bingville next day. Martha and Susan had been
getting the house ready. Mrs. Bing had been preparing what she fondly
hoped would be "a lovely surprise" for Phyllis. Roger Delane was coming
up to spend a quiet week with the Bings--a week of opportunity for the
young people with saddle horses and a new steam launch and a
Peterborough canoe and all pleasant accessories. Then, on the twentieth,
which was the birthday of Phyllis, there was to be a dinner and a house
party and possibly an announcement and a pretty wagging of tongues.
Indeed, J. Patterson had already bought the wedding gift, a necklace of
pearls, and paid a hundred thousand dollars for it and put it away in
his safe. The necklace had pleased him. He had seen many jewels, but
nothing so satisfying--nothing that so well expressed his affection for
his daughter. He might never see its like again. So he bought it against
the happy day which he hoped was near. He had shown it to his wife and
charged her to make no mention of it until "the time was ripe," in his
way of speaking.
Mrs. Bing had promised on her word and honor to respect the confidence
of her husband, with all righteous intention, but on the very day of
their arrival in Bingville, Sophronia (Mrs. Pendleton) Ames called.
Sophronia was the oldest and dearest friend that Mamie Bing had in the
village. The latter enjoyed her life in New York, but she felt always a
thrill at coming back to her big garden and the green trees and the
ample spaces of Bingville, and to the ready, sympathetic confidence of
Sophronia Ames. She told Sophronia of brilliant scenes in the changing
spectacle of metropolitan life, of the wonderful young man and the
untimely affliction of Phyllis, now happily past. Then, in a whisper,
while Sophronia held up her right hand as a pledge of secrecy, she told
of the necklace of which the lucky girl had no knowledge. Now Mrs. Ames
was one of the best of women. People were wont to speak of her, and
rightly, as "the salt of the earth." She would do anything possible for
a friend. But Mamie Bing had asked too much. Moreover, always it had
been understood between them that these half playful oaths were not to
be taken too seriously. Of course, "the fish had to be fed," as Judge
Crooker had once put it. By "the fish," he meant that curious under-life
of the village--the voracious, silent, merciless, cold-blooded thing
which fed on the sins and follies of men and women and which rarely came
to the surface to bother any one.
"The fish are very wise," Judge Crooker used to say. "They know the
truth about every one and it's well that they do. After all, they
perform an important office. There's many a man and woman who think
they've been fooling the fish but they've only fooled themselves."
And within a day or two, the secrets of the Bing family were swimming
up and down the stream of the under-life of Bingville.
Mr. Bing had found a situation in the plant which was new to him. The
men were discontented. Their wages were "sky high," to quote a phrase of
one of the foremen. Still, they were not satisfied. Reports of the
fabulous earnings of the mill had spread among them. They had begun to
think that they were not getting a fair division of the proceeds of
their labor. At a meeting of the help, a radical speaker had declared
that one of the Bing women wore a noose of pearls on her neck worth half
a million dollars. The men wanted more pay and less work. A committee of
their leaders had called at Mr. Bing's office with a demand soon after
his arrival. Mr. Bing had said "no" with a bang of his fist on the
table. A worker's meeting was to be held a week later to act upon the
report of the committee.
Meanwhile, another cause of worry had come or rather returned to him.
Again, Phyllis had begun to show symptoms of the old trouble. Mrs. Bing,
arriving at dusk from a market trip to Hazelmead with Sophronia Ames,
had found Phyllis lying asleep among the cushions on the great couch in
the latter's bedroom. She entered the room softly and leaned over the
girl and looked into her face, now turned toward the open window and
lighted by the fading glow in the western sky and relaxed by sleep. It
was a sad face! There were lines and shadows in it which the anxious
mother had not seen before and--had she been crying? Very softly, the
woman sat down at the girl's side. Darkness fell. Black, menacing
shadows filled the corners of the room. The spirit of the girl betrayed
its trouble in a sorrowful groan as she slept. Roger Delane was coming
next day. There was every reason why Phyllis should be happy. Silently,
Mrs. Bing left the room. She met Martha in the hall.
"I shall want no dinner and Mr. Bing is dining in Hazelmead," she
whispered. "Miss Phyllis is asleep. Don't disturb her."
Then she sat down in the darkness of her own bedroom alone.
CHAPTER SIX
IN WHICH HIRAM BLENKINSOP HAS A NUMBER OF ADVENTURES
The Shepherd of the Birds had caught the plague of influenza in March
and nearly lost his life with it. Judge Crooker and Mr. and Mrs.
Singleton and their daughter and Father O'Neil and Mrs. Ames and Hiram
Blenkinsop had taken turns in the nursing of the boy. He had come out of
it with impaired vitality.
The rubber tree used to speak to him in those days of his depression and
say, "It will be summer soon."
"Oh dear! But the days pass so slowly," Bob would answer with a sigh.
Then the round nickel clock would say cheerfully, "I hurry them along as
fast as ever I can."
"Seems as if old Time was losing the use of his legs," said the
Shepherd. "I wouldn't wonder if some one had run over him with an
automobile."
"Everybody is trying to kill Time these days," ticked the clock with a
merry chuckle.
Bob looked at the clock and laughed. "You've got some sense," he
declared.
"Nonsense!" the clock answered.
"You can talk pretty well," said the boy.
"I can run too. If I couldn't, nobody would look at me."
"The more I look at you the more I think of Pauline. It's a long time
since she went away," said the Shepherd. "We must all pray for her."
"Not I," said the little pine bureau. "Do you see that long scratch on
my side? She did it with a hat pin when I belonged to her mother, and
she used to keep her dolls in my lower drawer."
Mr. Bloggs assumed a look of great alertness as if lie spied the enemy.
"What's the use of worrying?" he quoted.
"You'd better lie down and cover yourself up or you'll never live to see
her or the summer either," the clock warned the Shepherd.
Then Bob would lie down quickly and draw the clothes over his shoulders
and sing of the Good King Wenceslas and The First Noël which Miss Betsy
Singleton had taught him at Christmas time.
All this is important only as showing how a poor lad, of a lively
imagination, was wont to spend his lonely hours. He needed company and
knew how to find it.
Christmas Day, Judge Crooker had presented him with a beautiful copy of
Raphael's _Madonna and Child_.