THE END OF A DAY OF SURPRISES
“Well, here we are, young man,” announced Compton half an hour later and
turned into a rather pretentious apartment building.
“It looks very fine from the outside,” commented Bobby.
“And I think you’ll like it inside, too,” returned Compton as they
entered the elevator.
Compton had an apartment on the third floor—sitting room, bathroom,
bedroom and guest chamber. Bobby examined the suite with manifest
delight. Everything was modern and in a sense elegant. If there were
anything lacking to John Compton’s comfort, John Compton did not know
it, nor did Bobby discover it. Bobby’s critical faculty was not as yet
strongly developed. He had nevertheless an abundance of enthusiasm which
he was not slow in expressing, and which failed him only in his survey
of the pictures and photographs clustered thickly upon the walls of the
sitting room. They were, with the exception of several photographs of
Compton himself, all women, mainly actresses and all in every variety of
dress and the contrary.
“Say, are all your friends women?” exclaimed the youth.
Compton colored and looked uneasy.
“_You’re_ my friend,” he replied.
“There’s something queer about a lot of these pictures,” the boy went
on. “I don’t like them.”
Mr. Compton changed the subject. Within twenty-four hours, nevertheless,
a good many of those pictures found their way to a place where they
properly belonged, and were seen no more in the land of sunshine.
“By the way, Bobby,” he resumed presently, “You haven’t said a word
about your mother to-day.”
“I know it,” said Bobby cheerfully.
“Well, I have bad news to tell you.”
“I’ll bet you haven’t.”
“That telegram I sent may not be received by her.”
“No?”
“No. It was delayed. A lot of messages were delayed. You know, it was to
have been delivered to her at the station at San Luis Obispo. But
there’s no knowing whether it will be forwarded in time to catch her.”
“Look here, uncle; I’ll tell you a secret. I have prayed, and I’m
sure—I just know—my prayer is all right. No harm will come to my
mother. She is safe; and she will come back when God wants her to.”
“You seem to be on intimate terms with the Almighty!”
“With who?”
“With God.”
“Why not?” inquired Bobby simply. “Don’t you believe in prayer?”
“Upon my word!” gasped the comedian. “I could have answered that
question easily enough yesterday; but now I don’t know what I believe
and what I don’t.”
What gem of wisdom might have dropped from Bobby’s lips in commenting
upon this strange declaration was lost forever when the janitor of the
building suddenly entered the room.
“Beg pardon, sir. I wasn’t sure you were here. But I think there’s some
mistake. There’s a wagon down below with some furniture and a lot of
stuff directed to you, and you—not being a family man—”
“Correct, Johnson. All the same, send them up. There’s no mistake. You
see, this boy is Bobby Compton, and he’s going to stay with me. He’s a
cousin of mine.”
“Oh, I say!” cried Bobby. “If I’m your aunt or your nephew, I want to
know how I’m your cousin.”
“Johnson,” said Compton magnificently, “when I say cousin I always mean
nephew. It’s the habit of a lifetime.”
“Oh,” observed Johnson, scratching his head. “Well, I’ll bring them
things up anyhow.”
“Well,” sighed Compton, throwing himself back in his chair, crossing his
legs, and cupping his hands behind his head, “I’m glad that’s settled. I
was afraid they wouldn’t come.”
Bobby took the chair facing his uncle, crossed his legs, and cupped his
hands behind his head.
“Afraid what wouldn’t come, uncle?”
“Never you mind, little monkey. Just wait.”
Bobby’s patience was not sorely tried. Up the stairs toiled four men
just then, Johnson in the lead, all laden with bundles and various
articles of furniture.
“This way, boys,” said Compton, opening the door to the guestroom. “Just
wait one moment, Bobby.” And Compton, having seen to each one’s getting
through, entered himself and closed the door. He was out a moment later,
holding in his hand an attractively bound book.
“Have you ever read ‘Through the Desert,’ by Sienkiewicz, Bobby?”
“No. But I just love any good story.”
“Here, take it. I’ll be busy for a while. The book is yours.”
“Mine for good?” cried Bobby, raising his eyes from the charming
frontispiece.
“Of course.”
“Uncle, you’re a dandy!”
The dandy blushingly withdrew, and Bobby forthwith entered into that
fairyland of childhood to be found in few books as in the one in his
hand. Perhaps one of the strangest phenomena of child life is the power
of complete absorption so many little ones possess when they read a good
story. People may come and go, laugh, talk and carry on in various ways,
while the child buried in his book follows the windings of the story as
though he were alone on a desert island. Now for fully three quarters of
an hour there went on in the guestroom a moving of furniture, loud
hammering, excited conversation, and all manner of noises. But to
Bobby’s ears came no sound, and time itself stood still.
When the four men, followed by Mr. Compton, the latter breathing hard
and perspiring freely, issued forth, Bobby, seated in a chair with his
legs curled under him, was buried in the precious volume. The four men
gratefully received various coins and went their way, leaving Mr.
Compton gazing wonderingly at the juvenile bookworm. So far as Bobby was
concerned, he might without interruption have gone on gazing
indefinitely.
“Bobby!” he finally called.
Bobby’s eyes remained fastened on the page.
“Bobby!” he bawled.
The boy raised his eyes.
“Oh, it’s great!” he said. “I’ve read fifty-four pages.”
“You have read enough. Come, I want to show you your room.”
“All right, uncle,” returned the boy, wistfully laying down the story.
“You’ve stopped me in a most exciting part.”
Throwing open the guestroom door, Compton said, “Walk in; it’s all
yours.”
With an attempt at enthusiasm, Bobby complied. In a moment the forced
enthusiasm became genuine. A small shining brass bed, a snow-white
counterpane, a case of books filled with the best juveniles, an electric
railroad, a baseball equipment, a tiny rocker, an easy chair, and a
variety of games—all these and more charmed his eyes into a new
brightness and marshaled out upon his features a myriad elves of
happiness.
Before Mr. Compton could prepare for the worst Bobby jumped into his
arms and caught him a kiss square upon his unprepared mouth.
For two hours Bobby flitted from toy to game, from game to book. He was
possibly at that moment the happiest boy in the State of California.
“Now, look you, Bobby, it’s ten o’clock. Don’t you think you might give
that bed a tryout?”
“Why, I never thought of that! Gee, but I’m tired!”
Mr. Compton thought, as he closed the door upon his ward, that his
dealings with the boy were over till morning. He was mistaken.
Presently, clad in rainbow pajamas, Bobby came forth.
“Now I’m ready,” he declared.
“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go to bed?”
“Ready,” explained the child, with reproach in his eyes, “for my night
prayers.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the comedian. “I never thought of that!”
The lad’s curling lip warned Mr. Compton that his remark was not
particularly happy.
“Of course, of course!” he added hastily. “How very absent-minded I am
getting! By all means, Bobby, go on and say your prayers.”
As Mr. Compton thus spoke he was lying restfully on a lounge, a cigar in
his mouth, a newspaper in his hands, and, within easy reach, a glass
filled almost to the brim with a golden liquid. What was his surprise,
thus situated, when Bobby plumped down on his knees and, planting his
elbows in the softest part of the comedian’s anatomy, made the sign of
the cross and recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Acts. And
he did not stop there. Raising his sweet voice a little higher, and
glancing during the first line about the walls of the room, Bobby
recited:
“_Angel of God, my guardian dear,_
_To whom His love commits me here._
_Ever this night he at my side,_
_To light, to guard, to rule, to guide._”
Mr. Compton, whose cigar had gone out, laid aside his paper, and
forgetting his drink, glanced behind him, almost expecting to see
hovering over him some bright and glorious creature of another world.
Bobby went on: “May the soul of my dear papa and all the souls of the
faithful departed rest in peace. Amen. God bless mamma—and God
bless—uncle!”
Compton dropped his cigar.
“And,” continued Bobby, raising beautiful and loving eyes to the
ceiling, “Oh, blessed Saviour bring back my mamma to me!”
Here Bobby broke down utterly.
“Steady, Bobby! You know what you told me. Didn’t you say God will bring
her back?”
Bobby at these words mastered his tears, made the sign of the cross, and
answered as he rose: “And I say so still. Good-night, uncle.”
Bobby leaned over with pursed lips. Compton was perspiring. He raised
his head, which was enough for Bobby, who gave him a hearty smack
resembling in sound the explosion of a mild firecracker.
About eleven o’clock that night Compton tiptoed into the guestroom. The
moon’s silvery rays revealed clearly the sleeping lad. How sweet and
calm looked the innocent face in the magic light!
“Is there an angel watching over him?” the man asked himself.
Twenty-four hours earlier he would have considered it a silly question,
but now—
He stooped lower and gazed more intently upon the child’s face. Was that
a tear upon the cheek? He felt the pillow. It was wet in places.
“What a brave little chap he is!” he commented. “He’s feeling his
separation from his mother dreadfully. But he keeps it to himself.”
Once more Compton gazed. And then for a moment he saw another
face—sweet, noble—the face of Bobby’s mother as he had known her in
her early teens.
“Ah,” he considered, “she was the sweetest woman that ever came into my
life! What a fool I was not to have taken her advice! I left her for the
husks of swine.”
Compton bent down, and with trembling lips touched the boy, lightly,
reverently on the brow, and with a suppressed sigh turned away to give
to sleep the last hour of the most remarkable day of his life.