Another month had come and not another word from Snipe. All the Doctor's
explorations were in vain. There was grief at the Lawrences', for the
poor mother had been visiting her sister, imploring full particulars in
one minute and denouncing her informants in the next. The most yielding
and self-forgetful of women ordinarily, she had risen in rebellion
against those whom she believed had wronged her boy. There was a rupture
at Rhinebeck, where George Lawton's step-father was given to understand
by George Lawton's mother that she would never believe that her boy had
stolen. That he had sold the books and the gun and might have sold the
watch was probably true. He had to do it to buy even the coarsest
clothes to hide his nakedness. She had come to Shorty's home, and, with
that sad-hearted youngster as her guide, had been conducted to the
Doctor's study, and there she was permitted to read and to weep over
Snipe's pathetic letter. She drew from Shorty all the details of the
boy's effort to get along on his scanty allowance, to spare her, and to
make his worn shoes and shabby, outgrown garments answer for another
year. The interview between the now roused and indignant woman and her
husband on her return to Rhinebeck must have been a source of amaze to
him as well as discomfiture. In forty-eight hours she was back at Mrs.
Lawrence's. "Do not put yourself out for me any more than you did for
George," she said to her sister, with a tinge of irrepressible
bitterness. "I will sleep in his little hall bedroom and sit at his
corner of your table--when you are not entertaining." And Mrs. Lawrence
made no reply. She knew well there had been much to warrant the mother's
accusation. George might indeed be the culprit her husband, her
brother-in-law, and her butler asserted, but he might not, probably
would not, have been but for the indifference or neglect which had been
his portion. Down at the bottom of her heart Aunt Lawrence was a
sympathetic woman, and not entirely unjust, for after the first few days
of excitement, at which times those at fault are sure to strive to fix
the blame on others, she realized that what she had said of George's
playmate and his people, even of George's misguided methods of spending
his recreation hours, was something she would gladly recall.
But all this time the search for the absent boy had gone on
unremittingly. Shorty had promised faithfully that if another letter
came from Snipe he would bring it to the mother at once, and Pop had
given his sanction. He refused to promise to come every day to see her,
as she had at first almost demanded. He told her frankly that after what
Mrs. Lawrence had said of him and his leading George astray, he couldn't
come. The Doctor had certain theories about the missing jewelry, and
had, on his own account, employed detective aid, and abandoned his
theory more perplexed than ever. Privately he let it be known to the
police that he would pay a handsome reward for the recovery of Joy's
watch and information that would lead to the apprehension of the thief,
but not a trace of it had been found. School work had to be kept up, but
Shorty's standing suffered. The weekly reports that so often bore in
Pop's remarkable chirography the word "_Imperator_," in Halsey's big,
round hand the inscription "_Nulli Secundus_," and over the sign manuals
of the other teachers some tribute to his scholarship and industry, now
spoke of him as "falling off," "losing ground," etc., and a gentle hand
was laid on his troubled head at home ere it signed the receipt, and
kind and sympathetic words would send him hurrying away to his own
little den, there to give way to a passion of tears. It was bad enough
to lose Snipe. It was cruel to think of the boy's loneliness and
suffering, but it was getting to be worst of all at school, where, true
to the old, old saying, the absent was sure to be wrong. Little by
little sneer, rumor, and insinuation had done their work, and, with no
one to defend but Shorty, Snipe's name had become clouded with suspicion
that was verging into certainty. If innocent of all the misdeeds laid at
his door, why had he run away? Why did he not come home to face his
accusers?
And so it happened that Shorty saw less of his schoolmates and more of
his and Snipe's old friends, the firemen, than ever before. At home this
was looked upon as decidedly unfortunate, but the lad was so unhappy and
restless that no active opposition was made. "No good can ever come from
such association," said the one oracular and dogmatic member of the
household. But that prophecy was destined to be put to the blush.
Quarter day had come at Pop's,--a day marked in the annals of the school
and celebrated in its traditions. More stories centred on that momentous
date than on all the other school-days combined. On the Friday of the
last week of the expiring quarter each of the Doctor's pupils would be
handed an envelope addressed to his responsible parent or guardian, and
each envelope so addressed contained the school bill for the ensuing
quarter, filled out in the Doctor's unique and dainty hand. No writing
was ever like it. Pop had a system of penmanship, as he had of
punishment, of instruction, and school discipline, peculiarly his own.
His capital letters were always large, clear, and well formed. His small
letters, except those extending above and below the line, were indicated
by tiny, back-handed dashes that individually conveyed no idea and
collectively were unmistakable. Not a word of instruction accompanied
the presentation of the missive, but every boy knew infallibly what to
expect. From time immemorial in the history of the school the unwritten
law had been that every boy appearing with the cash or check in payment
of the bill early on the following Monday morning might go his way on
whole holiday. If the money came on Tuesday the bearer was released at
twelve o'clock; but if it failed to come on Wednesday the pupil found
himself drifting from one scrape into another until it did come, and old
boys used to declare that pretexts were never lacking, when they were of
the school, to warrant the Doctor in flogging, every day until the money
came, the hapless lad whose parents failed to meet the demand on time.
Small wonder that Pop's boys developed phenomenal powers as bill
collectors and that Pop himself had no dunning letters to write.
The late autumn had given way to early winter, sharp and frosty. A great
presidential election had been held some weeks before. The East was
excited and the South enraged over the victory of a far Western
candidate, almost unknown to Gotham. Rumors more and more alarming of
Southern force and fury flew from lip to lip as November drew to its
close, and December, frosty but kindly, was ushered in. The boys had
separated Friday afternoon, taking the bills with them, and early Monday
morning Othello sat "for such occasions only" at the Doctor's desk, in
readiness to receipt for checks or cash before the opening hours of
school. A dozen at least of the First Latin had gleefully gone their
way. Another dozen, less fortunate, lolled dejectedly on the benches,
devoutly wishing their _paters_ were as well to do as those of the
holiday-makers (which many were, but held to a theory that Pop found too
many excuses for holidays). Shorty was neither with one nor the other.
Nine o'clock came and two of the First Latin had not reported; Hoover
was the other. The bell rang. Beach was told off to put the supposedly
derelict through their paces in Sallust, while Halsey went on signing
receipts, shoving money into the drawer, and saying, "You may go,"
briefly as possible, to the boys who came provided. The rule held good
for the entire school, and by quarter-past nine the rector's drawer was
stored with something over a thousand dollars in checks, bank-notes, and
coin. It was fully half-past nine when Hoover came slowly and sullenly
up the stairs and entered the room. Briggs, sitting at the foot of the
incarcerated dozen, jocularly hailed him with, "Hullo! for once in his
life Hoover won't have to sit on the mourners' bench."
"Go there yourself, sir!" said Beach, sternly, bringing Briggs instantly
to his feet with whining expostulation. "Why, what did I say, sir?" And
it takes more fines and much frowning to settle him, Othello never
interposing, for this money taking and changing is his bane. He has to
do it in the Doctor's absence, but he hates it. He counts over every
penny slowly and carefully, for the rector requires account to the
uttermost farthing, and small boys waiting for their receipt fidget
impatiently.
Hoover, mean time, is removing coat, gloves, and muffler with
exaggerated deliberation, and seizes the opportunity when Beach turns to
the head with a question, and while the stove-pipe hides Othello's eyes,
to administer a fervent kick to Briggs and send that sandy-haired young
fellow's Sallust flying to mid-floor, Briggs, of course, lending
unnecessary and additional centrifugal impetus to his belongings, and in
the midst of the acrimonious debate that follows a bounding step is
heard on the stair and in comes Shorty, flushed, panting a bit, and
filled with suppressed excitement and evident importance. He squeezes in
between Hoover and the rack to hang up his top-coat, Hoover swaying
backward, of course, to make it as difficult and disagreeable a process
as possible.
"Come out of that, Hoover, and take your seat," orders Beach, sternly.
But "Polyblasphemous" is ugly and rebellious. Not until Shorty has a
second time squeezed by is Hoover made to obey. Even then he turns back
and rummages among the coat pockets, claiming that he has left his
handkerchief therein. Hoover's handkerchief, like charity, is made to
cover a multitude of sins. He feels in a dozen pockets, apparently,
before he finds it. So engrossed is the class, or what is left of it, in
the effort to bring order out of chaos at the foot of the room--and
Hoover from among the overcoats--that few see that Shorty has handed
Othello a note before silently taking his seat. Hoover is presently
settled below Briggs, fined five marks for being late and another five
for trifling, and the recitation goes on, Beach evidently ruffled. Then
Othello looks up and beckons to Shorty, who silently goes to his side.
"When did the Doctor give you this?" he asks, in low tone; but now the
boys are still as mice and listening intently.
"Just at nine, sir, up at his house. I caught him going up to college
and gave him the letter, and he turned back and wrote that." Shorty
never could explain a thing in few words.
There is a sound as of shouting and excitement on the avenue above the
school and of swift-running feet, but at the moment no attention is
paid. "The Doctor says you are to have whole holiday," continues Halsey,
in his monotonous tones. The noise without is increasing.
"I--don't care to go, sir," says Shorty, hesitating, and the class looks
up in astonishment. The noise has spread to the rooms to the east,--the
nursery,--where the small boys are; a banging of windows and shades, a
rush of many feet, and all of a sudden the leaden-colored door flies
open and Meeker appears, pale and excited.
"Mr. Halsey!" he cries, "a house right back of us is all in a blaze.
Shall I dismiss my class?"
"Wait a moment," answers the head-master, ever deliberate, and away he
goes, long striding, the First Latin, despite Beach's effort, tearing
after him. Then Beach follows the tide. The house in flames is not just
back of them, but near enough to prove a source of tremendous interest
and excitement, if not of danger. It faces on Twenty-fifth Street, just
beyond the stable, and backs up into the grape-vined, fence-crossed
rectangle at the back. Smoke in thick volumes is pouring out of the back
windows. A tongue of flame licks out under the narrow gallery at the
rear of the main floor as Halsey forces his way through a mob of
shouting small boys to the open window. The First Latin comes tumbling
after him, shoving Meeker aside. Borne on the breath of the rising east
wind, a single, solemn "bong" of the Twenty-third Street tower tells
that the watcher has quickly descried the unusual smoke-cloud billowing
up from the doomed dwelling. People in adjoining houses are throwing
open blinds and shouting unintelligible things. Boys and men come
clambering over fences from adjoining yards. Cooks and housemaids gather
on back galleries, huddling together with shawls over their heads and
red arms wrapped in flimsy aprons. A pile of bedding comes hurtling down
through the smoke from a third-story window, followed by a lot of
books. Somebody has fetched a ladder, and a dozen boys and men have
scrambled to the tar and pebble roof of the stable, and there they dance
and shout and run hither and yon, but still no firemen appear. The
nearest hook and ladder company "lies" seven blocks away. The school is
down at the foot of the First (fire) District. The jangling bells of 61
Hose can be heard coming on the jump down the avenue, and every boy
knows Pacific Engine can't be a block behind. But now the "hot black
breath" rushing from the basement and first-floor windows bursts all at
once into furious red flames, and Halsey says resignedly, "School's
dismissed till the fire's out." The boys go tumbling over each other's
heels in mad dash for the door, and the thunder of feet, as they go
leaping down the narrow stairway, shakes and scandalizes the watchmakers
in the little shop below, and Mr. Foley, rushing out at the first boy he
can lay hands on, shakes him in turn until, amazed and wrathful, the
young fellow breaks loose, whirls about, and lands a stunning
left-and-right full in Foley's angry face, and turns it even redder,
while every other big boy springs to the aid of "28," just lowering her
long side levers and "taking the butt" from "61," while two or three
stalwart, black-helmeted fellows dart up the brownstone steps and into
the smoke-vomiting doorway, glistening pipe in hand, the copper-riveted,
black leather hose trailing behind them. Before the water gushes from
the corner hydrant and swells the snake-like coils that connect with the
engine, the pipemen come reeling out before the jetting flames, and
everybody knows that that fire will burn itself out and not succumb to
water. In their haste, many lads have left their overcoats on the rack,
and from the midst of these emerges Hoover, twisting the silken muffler
about his throat, the only pupil left in the main school room, as Halsey
suddenly recollects himself--and the cash in the Doctor's drawer--and
comes hurrying back to that abandoned desk. The drawer is half-way open,
the checks and bank-notes seem undisturbed, but Halsey knows there were
a number of ten-dollar gold pieces in the lot, and now there isn't one.
Long before that lively blaze is out and only bare burned walls are left
standing, the Doctor himself arrives upon the scene, and the
head-master, with rueful face, reports himself about one hundred dollars
short.