ANNETTE
Sam Wigglesworth had finished with school, which is not quite the same
as saying that he had finished his education. A number of causes had
combined to bring this event to pass. First, Sam was beyond the age
of compulsory attendance at the Public School, the School Register
recording him as sixteen years old. Then, Sam's educational career had
been anything but brilliant. Indeed, it might fairly be described as
dull. All his life he had been behind his class, the biggest boy in his
class, which fact might have been to Sam a constant cause of humiliation
had he not held as of the slightest moment merely academic achievements.
One unpleasant effect which this fact had upon Sam's moral quality was
that it tended to make him a bully. He was physically the superior of
all in his class, and this superiority he exerted for what he deemed the
discipline of younger and weaker boys, who excelled him in intellectual
attainment.
Furthermore, Sam, while quite ready to enforce the code of discipline
which he considered suitable to the smaller and weaker boys in his
class, resented and resisted the attempts of constituted authority
to enforce discipline in his own case, with the result that Sam's
educational career was, after much long suffering, abruptly terminated
by the action of the long-suffering head, Alex Day.
“With great regret I must report,” his letter to the School Board
ran, “that in the case of Samuel Wigglesworth I have somehow failed to
inculcate the elementary principles of obedience to school regulations
and of adherence to truth in speech. I am free to acknowledge,” went on
the letter, “that the defect may be in myself as much as in the boy, but
having failed in winning him to obedience and truth-telling, I feel
that while I remain master of the school I must decline to allow the
influence of this youth to continue in the school. A whole-hearted
penitence for his many offences and an earnest purpose to reform
would induce me to give him a further trial. In the absence of either
penitence or purpose to reform I must regretfully advise expulsion.”
Joyfully the School Board, who had for months urged upon the reluctant
head this action, acquiesced in the course suggested, and Samuel was
forthwith expelled, to his own unmitigated relief but to his father's
red and raging indignation at what he termed the “(h)ignorant
persecution of their betters by these (h)insolent Colonials,” for
“'is son 'ad 'ad the advantages of schools of the 'ighest standin' in
(H)England.”
Being expelled from school Sam forthwith was brought by his father
to the office of the mills, where he himself was employed. There he
introduced his son to the notice of Mr. Grant Maitland, with request for
employment.
The old man looked the boy over.
“What has he been doing?”
“Nothin'. 'E's just left school.”
“High School?”
“Naw. Public School.” Wigglesworth Sr.'s tone indicated no exalted
opinion of the Public School.
“Public School! What grade, eh?”
“Grade? I dinnaw. Wot grade, Samuel? Come, speak (h)up, cawn't yeh?”
“Uh?” Sam's mental faculties had been occupied in observing the
activities and guessing the probable fate of a lumber-jack gaily decked
in scarlet sash and blue overalls, who was the central figure upon a
flaming calendar tacked up behind Mr. Maitland's desk, setting forth
the commercial advantages of trading with the Departmental Stores of
Stillwell & Son.
“Wot grade in school, the boss is (h)askin',” said his father sharply.
“Grade?” enquired Sam, returning to the commonplace of the moment.
“Yes, what grade in the Public School were you in when you left?” The
blue eyes of the boss was “borin' 'oles” through Sam and the voice
pierced like a “bleedin' gimblet,” as Wigglesworth, Sr., reported to his
spouse that afternoon.
Sam hesitated a bare second. “Fourth grade it was,” he said with sullen
reluctance.
“'Adn't no chance, Samuel 'adn't. Been a delicate child ever since 'is
mother stopped suckin' 'im,” explained the father with a sympathetic
shake of his head.
The cold blue eye appraised the boy's hulking mass.
“'E don't look it,” continued Mr. Wigglesworth, noting the keen glance,
“but 'e's never been (h)able to bide steady at the school. (H)It's 'is
brain, sir.”
“His--ah--brain?” Again the blue eyes appraised the boy, this time
scanning critically his face for indication of undue brain activity.
“'Is brain, sir,” earnestly reiterated the sympathetic parent. “'Watch
that (h)infant's brain,' sez the Doctor to the missus when she put 'im
on the bottle. And you know, we 'ave real doctors in (H)England, sir.
'Watch 'is brain,' sez 'e, and, my word, the care 'is ma 'as took
of that boy's brain is wunnerful, is fair beautiful, sir.” Mr.
Wigglesworth's voice grew tremulous at the remembrance of that maternal
solicitude.
“And was that why he left school?” enquired the boss.
“Well, sir, not (h)exackly,” said Mr. Wigglesworth, momentarily taken
aback, “though w'en I comes to think on it that must a been at the
bottom of it. You see, w'en Samuel went at 'is books of a night 'e'd no
more than begin at a sum an' 'e'd say to 'is ma, 'My brain's a-whirlin',
ma', just like that, and 'is ma would 'ave to pull 'is book away, just
drag it away, you might say. Oh, 'e's 'ad a 'ard time, 'as Samuel.” At
this point the boss received a distinct shock, for, as his eyes were
resting upon Samuel's face meditatively while he listened somewhat
apathetically, it must be confessed, to the father's moving tale, the
eye of the boy remote from the father closed in a slow but significant
wink.
The boss sat up, galvanised into alert attention. “Eh? What?” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, 'e's caused 'is ma many a (h)anxious hour, 'as Samuel.” Again
the eye closed in a slow and solemn wink. “And we thought, 'is ma and
me, that we would like to get Samuel into some easy job--”
“An easy job, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Something in the office, 'ere.”
“But his brain, you say, would not let him study his books.”
“Oh, it was them sums, sir, an' the Jography and the 'Istory an' the
Composition, an', an'--wot else, Samuel? You see, these 'ere schools
ain't a bit like the schools at 'ome, sir. They're so confusing with
their subjecks. Wot I say is, why not stick to real (h)eddication,
without the fiddle faddles?”
“So you want an easy job for your son, eh?” enquired Mr. Maitland.
“Boy,” he said sharply to Samuel, whose eyes had again become fixed upon
the gay and daring lumber-jack. Samuel recalled himself with visible
effort. “Why did you leave school? The truth, mind.” The “borin'” eyes
were at their work.
“Fired!” said Sam promptly.
Mr. Wigglesworth began a sputtering explanation.
“That will do, Wigglesworth,” said Mr. Maitland, holding up his hand.
“Sam, you come and see me tomorrow here at eight. Do you understand?”
Sam nodded. After they had departed there came through the closed
office door the sound of Mr. Wigglesworth's voice lifted in violent
declamation, but from Sam no answering sound could be heard.
The school suffered no noticeable loss in the intellectual quality of
its activities by the removal of the whirling brain and incidentally
its physical integument of Samuel Wigglesworth. To the smaller boys the
absence of Sam brought unbounded joy, more especially during the
hours of recess from study and on their homeward way from school after
dismissal.
More than any other, little Steve Wickes rejoiced in Sam's departure
from school. Owing to some mysterious arrangement of Sam's brain cells
he seemed to possess an abnormal interest in observing the sufferings
of any animal. The squirming of an unfortunate fly upon a pin fascinated
him, the sight of a wretched dog driven mad with terror rushing
frantically down a street, with a tin can dangling to its tail,
convulsed him with shrieking delight. The more highly organised the
suffering animal, the keener was Sam's joy. A child, for instance,
flying in a paroxysm of fear from Sam's hideously contorted face
furnished acute satisfaction. It fell naturally enough that little
Steve Wickes, the timid, shrinking, humpbacked son of the dead soldier,
Stephen Wickes, afforded Sam many opportunities of rare pleasure. It
was Sam that coined and, with the aid of his sycophantic following
never wanting to a bully, fastened to the child the nickname of “Humpy
Wicksy,” working thereby writhing agony in the lad's highly sensitive
soul. But Sam did not stay his hand at the infliction of merely mental
anguish. It was one of his favorite forms of sport to seize the child by
the collar and breeches and, swinging him high over head, hold him there
in an anguish of suspense, awaiting the threatened drop. It is to be
confessed that Sam was not entirely without provocation at the hands
of little Steve, for the lad had a truly uncanny cunning hidden in
his pencil, by means of which Sam was held up in caricature to the
surreptitious joy of his schoolmates. Sam's departure from school
deprived him of the full opportunity he formerly enjoyed of indulging
himself in his favourite sport. On this account he took the more eager
advantage of any opportunity that offered still to gratify his taste in
this direction.
Sauntering sullenly homeward from his interview with the boss and with
his temper rasped to a raw edge by his father's wrathful comments upon
his “dommed waggin' tongue,” he welcomed with quite unusual eagerness
the opportunity for indulging himself in his pastime of baiting Humpy
Wicksy whom he overtook on his way home from school during the noon
intermission.
“Hello, Humpy,” he roared at the lad.
Like a frightened rabbit Steve scurried down a lane, Sam whooping after
him.
“Come back, you little beast. Do you hear me? I'll learn you to come
when you're called,” he shouted, catching the terrified lad and heaving
him aloft in his usual double-handed grip.
“Let me down, you! Leave me alone now,” shrieked the boy, squirming,
scratching, biting like an infuriated cat.
“Bite, would you?” said Sam, flinging the boy down. “Now then,” catching
him by the legs and turning him over on his stomach, “we'll make a
wheelbarrow of you. Gee up, Buck! Want a ride, boys?” he shouted to his
admiring gallery of toadies. “All aboard!”
While the unhappy Steve, shrieking prayers and curses, was struggling
vainly to extricate himself from the hands gripping his ankles, Annette
Perrotte, stepping smartly along the street on her way from the box
factory, came past the entrance to the lane. By her side strode a
broad-shouldered, upstanding youth. Arrested by Steve's outcries and
curses she paused.
“What are those boys at, I wonder?” she said. “There's that big lout of
a Wigglesworth boy. He's up to no good, I bet you.”
“Oh, a kids' row of some kind or ither, a doot,” said the youth. “Come
along.”
“He's hurting someone,” said Annette, starting down the lane. “What? I
believe it's that poor child, Steve Wickes.” Like a wrathful fury she
dashed in upon Sam and his company of tormentors and, knocking the
little ones right and left, she sprang upon Sam with a fierce cry.
“You great brute!” She seized him by his thatch of thick red hair and
with one mighty swing she hurled him clear of Steve and dashed him head
on against the lane fence. Sheer surprise held Sam silent for a few
seconds, but as he felt the trickle of warm blood run down his face and
saw it red upon his hand, his surprise gave place to terror.
“Ouw! Ouw!” he bellowed. “I'm killed, I'm dying. Ouw! Ouw!”
“I hope so,” said Annette, holding Steve in her arms and seeking to
quiet his sobbing. But as she saw the streaming blood her face paled.
“For the love of Mike, Mack, see if he's hurt,” she said in a low voice
to her companion.
“Not he! He's makin' too much noise,” said the young man. “Here, you
young bull, wait till I see what's wrang wi' ye,” he continued, stooping
over Sam.
“Get away from me, I tell you. Ouw! Ouw! I'm dying, and they'll hang
her. Ouw! Ouw! I'm killed, and I'm just glad I am, for she'll be hung to
death.” Here Sam broke into a vigorous stream of profanity.
“Ay, he's improvin' A doot,” said Mack. “Let us be going.”
“'Ello! Wot's (h)up?” cried a voice. It was Mr. Wigglesworth on his way
home from the mill. “Why, bless my living lights, if it bean't Samuel.
Who's been a beatin' of you, Sammy?” His eye swept the crowd. “'Ave you
been at my lad?” he asked, stepping toward the young man, whom Annette
named Mack.
“Aw, steady up, man. There's naethin' much wrang wi' the lad--a wee
scratch on the heid frae fa'in' against the fence yonder.”
“Who 'it 'im, I say?” shouted Mr. Wigglesworth. “Was it you?” he added,
squaring up to the young man.
“No, it wasn't, Mr. Wigglesworth. It was me.” Mr. Wigglesworth turned
on Annette who, now that Sam's bellowing had much abated with the
appearance of his father upon the scene, had somewhat regained her
nerve.
“You?” gasped Mr. Wigglesworth. “You? My Samuel? It's a lie,” he cried.
“Hey, mon, guairrd y're tongue a bit,” said Mack. “Mind ye're speakin'
to a leddy.”
“A lidy! A lidy!” Mr. Wigglesworth's voice was eloquent of scorn.
“Aye, a leddy!” said Mack. “An' mind what ye say aboot her tae. Mind
y're manners, man.”
“My manners, hey? An' 'oo may you be, to learn me manners, you bloomin'
(h)ignorant Scotch (h)ass. You give me (h)any of your (h)imperance an'
I'll knock y're bloomin' block (h)off, I will.” And Mr. Wigglesworth,
throwing himself into the approved pugilistic attitude, began dancing
about the young Scot.
“Hoot, mon, awa' hame wi' ye. Tak' yon young tyke wi' ye an' gie him a
bit wash, he's needin' it,” said Mack, smiling pleasantly at the excited
and belligerent Mr. Wigglesworth.
At this point Captain Jack, slowly motoring by the lane mouth, turned
his machine to the curb and leaped out.
“What's the row here?” he asked, making his way through the considerable
crowd that had gathered. “What's the trouble, Wigglesworth?”
“They're knockin' my boy abaht, so they be,” exclaimed Mr. Wigglesworth.
“But,” with growing and righteous wrath, “they'll find (h)out that,
wotsomever they do to a kid, w'en they come (h)up agin Joe Wigglesworth
they've struck somethin' 'ard--'ard, d'ye 'ear? 'Ard!” And Mr.
Wigglesworth made a pass at the young Scot.
“Hold on, Wigglesworth,” said Captain Jack quietly, catching his arm.
“Were you beating up this kid?” he asked, turning to the young man.
“Nae buddie's beatin' up the lad,” said Mack quietly.
“It was me,” said the girl, turning a defiant face to Captain Jack.
“You? Why! great Scot! Blest if it isn't Annette.”
“Yes, it's me,” said the girl, her face a flame of colour.
“By Jove, you've grown up, haven't you? And it was you that--”
“Yes, that big brute was abusing Steve here.”
“What? Little Steve Wickes?”
“He was, and I pitched him into the fence. He hit his head and cut it, I
guess. I didn't mean--”
“Served him right enough, too, I fancy,” said Captain Jack.
“I'll 'ave the law on the lot o' ye, I will. I'm a poor workin' man,
but I've got my rights, an' if there's a justice in this Gawd forsaken
country I'll 'ave protection for my family.” And Mr. Wigglesworth,
working up a fury, backed off down the lane.
“Don't fear, Wigglesworth, you'll get all the justice you want. Perhaps
Sam will tell us--Hello! Where is Sam?”
But Sam had vanished. He had no mind for an investigation in the
presence of Captain Jack.
“Well, well, he can't be much injured, I guess. Meantime, can I give you
a lift, Annette?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl, the colour in her cheeks matching the
crimson ribbon at her throat. “I'm just going home. It's only a little
way. I don't--”
“The young leddy is with me, sir,” said the young Scotchman quietly.
“Oh, she is, eh?” said Captain Jack, looking him over. “Ah, well,
then--Good-bye, Annette, for the present.” He held out his hand. “We
must renew our old acquaintance, eh?”
“Thank you, sir,” said the girl.
“'Sir?' Rot! You aren't going to 'sir' me, Annette, after all the fun
and the fights we had in the old days. Not much. We're going to be good
chums again, eh? What do you say?”
“I don't know,” said Annette, flashing a swift glance into Captain
Jack's admiring eyes. “It depends on--”
“On me?”
“I didn't say so.” Her head went up a bit.
“On you?”
“I didn't say so.”
“Well, let it go. But we will be pals again, Annette, I vow. Good-bye.”
Captain Jack lifted his hat and moved away.
As he reached his car he ran up against young Rupert Stillwell.
“Deucedly pretty Annette has grown, eh?” said Stillwell.
“Annette's all right,” said Jack, rather brusquely, entering his car.
“Working in your box factory, I understand, eh?”
“Don't really know,” said Jack carelessly. “Probably.”
The crowd had meantime faded away with Captain Jack's going.
“Did na know the Captain was a friend of yours, Annette,” said Mack,
falling into step beside her.
“No--yes--I don't know. We went to Public School together before the
war. I was a kid then.” Her manner was abstracted and her eyes were
far away. Mack walked gloomily by her on one side, little Steve on the
other.
“Huh! He's no your sort, A doot,” he said sullenly.
“What do you say?” cried Annette, returning from her abstraction. “What
do you mean, 'my sort'?” Her head went high and her eyes flashed.
“He would na look at ye, for ony guid.”
“He did look at me though,” replied Annette, tossing her head.
“No for ony guid!” repeated Mack, stubbornly.
Annette stopped in her tracks, a burning red on her cheeks and a
dangerous light in her black eyes.
“Mr. McNish, that's your road,” she said, pointing over his shoulder.
“A'll tak it tae,” said McNish, wheeling on his heel, “an' ye can hae
your Captain for me.”
With never a look at him Annette took her way home.
“Good-bye, Steve,” she said, stooping and kissing the boy. “This is your
corner.”
“Annette,” he said, with a quick, shy look up into her face, “I like
Captain Jack, don't you?”
“No,” she said hurriedly. “I mean yes, of course.”
“And I like you too,” said the boy, with an adoring look in his deep
eyes, “better'n anyone in the world.”
“Do you, Steve? I'm glad.” Again she stooped swiftly and kissed him.
“Now run home.”
She hurried home, passed into her room without a word to anyone. Slowly
she removed her hat, then turning to her glass she gazed at her flushed
face for a few moments. A little smile curved her lips. “He did look at
me anyway,” she whispered to the face that looked out at her, “he did,
he did,” she repeated. Then swiftly she covered her eyes. When she
looked again she saw a face white and drawn. “He would na look at ye.”
The words smote her with a chill. Drearily she turned away and went out.