Forty-eight hours passed without a trace of George Lawton, and they were
the saddest two days the First Latin ever knew. "All the life went out
of the school with Snipe," was the way Joy expressed it, though no
fellow in the whole establishment was credited with more mischief than
the speaker. Lessons and recitations, despite the best efforts of Halsey
and Beach and the lamb-like bleatings of Meeker, seemed to fall flat.
Even the leaders went through with them in a style more dead than alive,
and at every sound upon the stairs all eyes would be fixed on the
doorway and matters would come to a stand-still in the class. It was
plain that every boy was thinking only of the missing comrade and
praying for tidings of him. The masters, too, were weighed down with
apprehension--or something. Othello's dark face wore a yellowish hue,
and Meeker looked the picture of nervous woe. His complexion, always
pallid, now seemed ashen, and he started at every sudden sound. Thursday
went by without a word of any kind of news. The class huddled together
at recess, taking no notice whatever of Hoover, who skulked away for his
smoke, followed by many unloving eyes but without audible comment, for
Shorty had conveyed Pop's dictum to the class, and when Pop took his
boys into his confidence, as, through some one or two of their number he
sometimes did, and told them thus and so, there was no question. That
class at least observed his wishes to the letter. Hoover had been told
to return to school and no questions asked, and the First Latin was
virtually pledged to the arrangement.
"_Aut impendere viam, aut poscere causas._"
But a wretched-looking Hoover it was that emerged from the Doctor's
closet at two that afternoon and slunk back to the accustomed place at
the foot of the room. Even Briggs had steered clear of him, and every
one noted how Briggs flitted about from group to group during recess,
his old-time "cheek" apparently vanished, his effrontery replaced by
nervous appeal. He had seized on Shorty, as the boys turned out for
recess, with eager question about Snipe, but the youngster impatiently
shook him off and shot away, light of foot as he was heavy of heart, and
the eyes of the others followed him as he turned into Twenty-fourth
Street, for all seemed to know he was using his half-hour to speed to
the Lawrences' for news of Snipe. Before the bell recalled them he was
back, mournfully shaking his head, and they trooped up-stairs,
low-voiced and disconsolate, Hoover slinking in alone, last of all, his
hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes flitting nervously
about. All through the half-hour the talk had been as to the possible
cause of Snipe's mysterious withdrawal from the school and later and
more mysterious disappearance. Everybody felt that John, the janitor,
could tell something, even if it were only a lie--or a pack of lies, for
John's veracity was a thing held up to scorn at the end of a hair. But
John kept under the wing of some teacher and could not and would not be
approached, and John looked white and scared. The Doctor came at the
usual time, made the usual impressive pause at the doorway, pointed, as
usual, to the usual foot of the class, who blinked and shifted rather
more than ever. Then Pop removed his hat and strode with his usual
deliberation to the closet, hung it on its peg, produced his gold-rimmed
spectacles, and, as usual, wiped the glasses with his spotless cambric
handkerchief as he looked over the notes and letters on his desk, while
in subdued, half-hearted way the recitation went on. Then, with only a
glance along the line of young faces, all studying him and none
regarding Halsey, who at the moment had little Beekman on the rack, he
signalled to Shorty, and the boy sprang to his side.
"Hear anything?" he asked, in undertone, as though he needed not to be
told that Shorty had gone to inquire.
"No news, sir," said Loquax, with lips that twitched alarmingly. "Mrs.
Lawrence will be here right after school."
"Then you stay. I may need you," said the Doctor, and pointed to the
bench.
Five minutes later, after rapidly reading the brief missives on his
desk, the Doctor arose, signalled to Hoover, ushered him into the
lead-colored closet, followed and shut the door, from which quarter of
an hour later Hoover emerged, as has been said, looking limp and
woe-begone, and the moment school was over slunk away homeward without a
word. By this time the First Latin was half mad with mingled curiosity
and concern, when an elegantly dressed woman, followed by a manservant
with a compact little parcel under his arm, appeared at the Fourth
Avenue entrance, where the group still lingered, waiting for Shorty, and
the whisper went round that it was Mrs. Lawrence, Snipe's aunt. The
excitement rose to fever heat. Doremus and Satterlee, scouting about the
avenue an hour later, declared that she had been crying when she came
forth again and walked away to Twenty-fourth Street. Friday came. Shorty
was ten minutes late at first recitation and failed in every lesson, yet
not a word of rebuke came from any one of the masters. Halsey merely
inclined his dark head, and with a tinge of sympathy in his tone,
wherein they had long known only cutting sarcasm or stern admonition,
said, "Never mind going further to-day." At recess, again, the boy
bounded away to the Lawrences' and came back five minutes late, with
face as hopeless as before, but he bore a note, which he laid upon the
Doctor's desk, and without a word accepted the "ten marks off" for his
delay, which at any other time would have caused a storm of protest. Pop
arrived three minutes ahead of time, saw at a glance that little Pythias
was down near the foot of the class, and made not the faintest allusion
to it. He had barely taken his seat and looked over the two or three
notes when a heavy tread was heard upon the stair, and despite Halsey's
efforts the recitation hung fire, and every boy stared as a tall,
grim-visaged, angular man of middle age stepped within the door, and in
another moment was clasping hands with the Doctor, who left his dais to
greet him. There was a brief, low-toned exchange of words, then Halsey
and the new-comer caught each other's eye, despite the former's effort
to stick to his work, and, faintly flushing, Halsey arose, and they too
shook hands.
"How have they done to-day, Mr. Halsey?" promptly queried the Doctor;
and as nobody had done well or behaved ill, Halsey hesitated. He could
not dissemble. Pop saw the hitch and cut the Gordian knot.
"Gentlemen of the First Latin," he said, "the school is honored by a
visit from one of Columbia's most distinguished alumni. Shall we give
him an exhibition performance in the Anabasis or--take half holiday?"
The class would rather stay but not exhibit; and so in five minutes the
decks are clear, and, next to Beekman, the shortest boy in the highest
class is being presented to the tall graduate. Before the name was
mentioned he knew that it must be Lawton's step-father, Mr. Park.
First there has to be another conference of some ten minutes' duration
between the Doctor and his visitor, who had taken the youngster's hand
and looked down into his anxious face with solemn, speculative eyes and
without the ghost of a smile. Shorty feels his soul welling up in
mightier sympathy with Snipe. There is not a thing in Park's manner to
invite a boy's trust or confidence. Then the two turn to Shorty, and he
is summoned to rejoin them.
"The Doctor tells me you have been my--er--young Lawton's most intimate
friend,--that most of his hours out of school have been spent with you.
I had heard as much before through his mother and his aunt, whom I
believe you know,--Mrs. Lawrence."
The boy looks up, unspeaking, his blue eyes clouded. It needs but faint
encouragement, as a rule, to relax his tongue; but neither in word nor
manner does he find encouragement here. He looks, and his gaze is
fearless, if not a little defiant, but he answers never a word.
"What I wish to know is something of your haunts, occupations, etc. We
supposed that when in your company and in the home of such eminent
persons as your grandparents our boy would be safe."
Shorty reddens. Many a time when Snipe would have studied he has coaxed
him out for a run afar down-town, a visit to some bell tower or some
famous fire company, where they were never without kindly welcome.
"I gather," continues Park, "from what has been told me at his aunt's,
that your associates were not always of the better class of boys."
Shorty turns redder still. Many a time when he would have been glad to
spend an evening at the home of Joy or Beekman, Doremus or Satterlee,
Snipe had held back. "You go," he said: "I'll stay here and read," and
it wasn't long before Shorty fully understood the reason. Snipe could
not bear to go in such shabby attire, but he had no better, and could
get none without importuning his mother. No one in the houses of the
fire department looked or said critical things about his clothes. Snipe
was just as welcome as Shorty, and the rough fellows of the red shirts
seemed to enjoy explaining everything about the different styles of
engines and all the intricacies of their running rules to the brown-eyed
boy, who seemed to ponder over what he was told and to remember
everything. And so it had resulted that whenever a cold or rainy
Saturday came round and they couldn't play ball, big Damon and little
Pythias had spent many an hour going from one engine-or hose-house to
another, studying the different "machines," learning to know the foremen
or leaders of the rival companies, and often climbing to the tall
perches of the bell towers and gazing out through the watcher's long
glass over the far-spreading city, the smoky shores of Jersey or Long
Island, the thicket of masts bordering the rivers, and the distant
glimmering bay. It was all of vivid interest. True, they heard language
that was eminently unclassical. They penetrated into sections of the
great city where the fashionable garments of their wealthier schoolmates
would have become the target for the satire of the saloons and the
missiles of the street Arabs. They saw and heard all manner of things at
which Aunt Lawrence would have shrunk in dismay, and concerning which
Shorty's own people were sometimes apprehensive. But as neither boy
cared to imitate the language or the manners thus discovered, it was
held that no great harm resulted. That they might have been far better
employed every right-thinking moralist will doubtless declare, and that
they would have been better employed even Snipe, down in the bottom of
his heart, would have admitted--but for his clothes. It is astonishing
how much one's garb has to do with one's goodness, even among
school-boys.
And all this was passing through Shorty's mind as the steely blue eyes
of Mr. Park were searching his flushing face, and more things, too. With
all her ambition and moderate wealth, Mrs. Lawrence occupied a social
position just a plane below that on which moved Shorty's kith and kin.
Beautiful old homes on the lower avenue and around Washington Square
where they were welcome knew not Mrs. Lawrence. She had encouraged,
unquestioning, Snipe's growing intimacy with his little friend, because
it "brought the families together," as she once gushingly explained to
Shorty's favorite aunt, and, as she confided to her husband, might lead
to even more. Much, therefore, did she question Snipe as to what took
place at table, in the parlor and music-room of the big household in
Fourteenth Street, and, in the engrossing interest she felt in the
doings of certain of its elder inmates, lost all thought of those of the
boys themselves. Not until within the past few days had she been
required to give an account of her stewardship, and now the butler's
revelations, gathered mainly, as he stated, from market conferences with
the magnate who presided over the board at Shorty's, had filled her with
dismay.
"Them boys, ma'am," was that dignitary's comprehensive summing up, "do
be seeing the worst society in New York, 'stead of rejoicin' in the
best--with their relatives."
"You do not answer," at last says Park. "Could you find no better way of
spending your play hours than going around among low firemen?"
"We spent 'em at base ball when the weather was good," says Shorty,
shortly, and there is glowing temper in the tone which the Doctor knows
of old, and he sees it is time to interpose.
"I have never said anything to you about this, my young friend," says
he, "because I found that your relatives knew all about it, and thought
you capable of keeping out of trouble; but I did not know Lawton was so
often with you. What Mr. Park wishes to know is why you spent so much
time among the firemen and so little among your classmates?"
Shorty turns to the Doctor fearlessly. Him he knows and trusts. Twice
for boyish misdemeanors has the great teacher bidden him take his books
and leave the school, and both times has he reinstated him, as he had
others, within twelve hours. "I don't care for these Sammy-go-softly
boys," he had confided to Shorty. "I don't mind a little fun, but it
must not take the form of impertinence to teachers or disobedience of
their orders. If they are unjust, I'll straighten it out myself, but
don't you try." Like most of the boys in the First Latin, Shorty knows
he has the Doctor's sympathy and friendship, and so the answer comes
pat. "The reason was because he had no money and was ashamed of his
clothes."
Mr. Park is severely judicial. School-boy impetuosity must not be
permitted to ruffle him. With great dignity he begins,--
"I do not approve of young lads having unlimited pocket-money or
fashionable clothes, much less so in the case of a lad who must make his
own way in the world, as George will have to do."
"That's what Snipe said," was Shorty's quick reply. "Most of the class
have both, however; and as he had neither and I only a little, we
couldn't keep up with the crowd, so we spent our time together."
"I am amazed that your grandparents should approve of such pernicious
association for so young a lad as you," says Park, shifting the point of
attack, for he feels that a revelation is imminent, and doesn't care to
have the rector know how little he gave and how much he demanded. But it
is bad fencing, for Shorty "disengages" with equal skill and follows
with a palpable hit. Ignoring Park's comment, he faces the Doctor again.
"You know, sir, that there isn't another boy in the class has to get his
boots and gloves and pay his way on fifty cents a week." And Pop,
inwardly convulsed, feels compelled to reprove.
"Tut, tut!" he says. "These are matters for parents and guardians to
settle. Little boys must hold their tongues." And when Pop means to be
especially crushing he "little boys" the First Latin.
"Any proper and necessary expense incurred by George would have been
promptly allowed," says Park, loftily, "had he seen fit to confide in me
or in his mother."
"He _couldn't_ tell his mother, even when he was nearly barefoot,"
blurts out Shorty. "She wrote him last year she'd rather sell her watch
than ask you for money for him!" And now Park, too, reddens, for he
realizes that the statement is probably true. Hastily he returns to the
charge. This boy knows and talks too much. It isn't safe to allow him
the floor. Pop turns away, with evidences of earthquake-like
disturbances underneath that silken waistcoat.
"Then this is the excuse," says Park, severely, "for his resorting to
pawnbrokers--with stolen property."
And Shorty bursts out indignantly, "He never stole a thing, or sold it
either!" And now his eyes look pleadingly to the Doctor as though to
say, "You know this can't be so! Why do you let him lie?"
And as though to answer the appeal and come to the rescue of a maligned
and beloved pupil, Pop turns instantly, every sign of merriment gone.
"Surely you are misinformed, Park," he says. "There was nothing but some
last year's books and his father's old shotgun. He told us everything."
"He didn't tell you everything," answers Park, with emphasis. "How much
of this is due to evil associations you can judge better than I; but
look here," and from a bulging pocket of his overcoat he produces a
package wrapped in a red silk handkerchief. A minute later and he lays
upon the desk Seymour's handsome gold pencil-case, an old-fashioned
watch and chain, such as women wore twenty years earlier, and some
cameo earrings, with breastpin to match. "These," says he, solemnly,
"were recovered this morning. They represent only a small portion of
what his aunt, his benefactress, has found to be missing from her box of
disused trinkets and heirlooms. The boy was shrewd enough to confine his
stealings to things that wouldn't have been missed for weeks or months,
perhaps, had not a faithful domestic's suspicions been aroused. This
will be a sore blow to his poor mother. It has almost prostrated his
aunt, and I dare say we don't begin to know the worst. Has nothing been
missed by his classmates here at school?"
There are beads of sweat on the Doctor's pale forehead as he turns away,
Joy's watch instantly occurring to him. As for Shorty, in distress and
consternation, mingled with vehement unbelief, for once in his life he
is dumb.