project. He could not remember having met this grown-up before, but he
might have said, “I have heard so much about you.” His mother had told
him. For example, his father was the best and bravest man in the world.
Also, according to the same reliable authority, he loved Junior and his
mother enormously and equally. He was far away, getting bread and butter
for them. A wonderful person, a great big man, six feet two inches “and
well proportioned,” and such an honourable gentleman that--well, that
was the only reason he was not coming home with a huge fortune, she
explained. But at any rate he was coming home at last and would be
awfully glad to see what a big boy Junior had become.
He was, but Phil had always been rather shy with strangers, and did not
pay so much attention to his namesake as Junior had been led to expect.
You see, everyone in this tyrant’s kingdom worshipped him, and Junior
assumed that his father would follow conventions. For every night before
he went to sleep his father’s name had invariably been mentioned first
in the list of people and animals and playthings that loved him.
Junior, though quite small, was a great lover and much given to kissing.
On momentous occasions, such as the start for the picnic the day after
his father’s arrival, Junior manifested his excitement by hugging and
kissing everybody in sight, including the dogs. It was his earliest form
of selfexpression. His father, as it happened, was absorbed in packing
the tea basket and had never been accustomed to being kissed while
packing in camp. Besides, Junior had been helping his mother prepare the
luncheon. That is, he had taken a hand in the distribution of guava
jelly, and there was just one hardship in the life of this immaculate
mining engineer he could never endure--sticky fingers. But Junior had
not yet learned that, and so, taking advantage of his father’s kneeling
posture, he tackled him around the neck and indulged in passionate
osculation.
“Call your child off,” said Phil to Nell. She laughed.
“Come, precious, don’t bore your father.”
Junior did not know what that new word “bore” meant, but he released his
father and transferred his demonstration to his mother. She never seemed
to get too much and did not object to sweet fingers.
“Mamma,” said Junior as they started off in the car, “I don’t believe
that man in front likes me.”
“He adores you, darling; he’s your father.”
Well, it sounded reasonable, but he remembered the new word. That
evening when they came home the dogs, not having been allowed to go on
the picnic, thought it was their turn and jumped up on Phil with muddy
paws. Junior took command of the situation and of the new word.
“Down, Rex!” he said to the sentimental setter. “Don’t bore my father.”
And he pulled Rex away by the tail.
At bedtime, when the nurse came to bear him off, he raised his arms to
Phil.
“Can I bore you now?”
Phil laughed and kissed him good night.
“Funny little cuss, isn’t he?” said Phil.
“He’s a very unusual child,” said this very unusual Mother.
“Unusually ugly, you mean.”
But he couldn’t get a rise out of Nell.
“Oh, you’ll learn to appreciate him yet.”
Shortly before Phil left for his next trip the paternal passion had its
way with this reserved father, for once. Some little street boys, as
they were technically classified by the nurse, had been ordered off the
drive by Junior, who was playing out there alone. They did not like his
aristocratic manner and rolled him in the mud. They were pommelling him
in spite of his protests, when Phil heard the outcry and, getting a
glimpse of the unequal contest from the library window, gave forth a
shout that made the intruders take to their heels, the infuriated father
after them.
As he raced down the drive he saw the wide-eyed animal terror on his
child’s face and it aroused within him an animal emotion of another
kind, one he had never felt before, though he had often seen it
exhibited by wild beasts--usually the mothers. It was a lust to destroy
those two little boys, to render them extinct. He might have done so
too; but fortunately they had a good start, and by the time he caught up
with them civilization caught up with him sufficiently to make him
realize what century he was living in. So, with a few vigorous cuffs and
an angry warning, he hastened back to his bleating offspring,
recognizing with astonishment and some alarm how near blind parental
rage can bring a man to murder.
Junior was not so much damaged as his white clothes were, but his
childish terror was pitiful. He rushed into his father’s arms and clung,
quivering. Phil held him close.
“There, there, it’s all right now. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
Without realizing it, this fastidious father was kissing an extremely
dirty face again and again. Junior, still sobbing convulsively, clung
closer.
“You’ll always be on my side, won’t you, Father?”
“You bet I will!” said Phil. “You’re my own darling little boy.”
He had had no intention of saying things quite like that, and didn’t
know that he could; but it sounded all right to Junior. This moment was
to be one of those vivid recollections that last through a lifetime.
With a final long-drawn sigh of complete and passionate comfort, the
small boy looked up into the big man’s face and smiled.
“You love me now, don’t you, Father?” he said.
“You bet I love you!”
The boy had got him at last. But perhaps Junior presumed upon this new
privilege. The next morning he awoke with a bad dream about those street
boys, and as soon as the nurse permitted he rushed in to be reassured by
his big father. Phil was preoccupied with shaving and did not know about
the bad dream. Junior tried to climb up Phil’s legs.
“That will do,” said his father in imminent peril of cutting his chin;
“get down. Get down, I tell you. Oh, Nell!”--she was in the next
room--“make your child quit picking on me.”
“Come to me, dearest. Mustn’t bother Father when he’s shaving.”
Junior wasn’t piqued but he was puzzled.
“But I thought he loved me; he told me he loved me,” he called out.
“Didn’t you tell me you loved me, Father?”
Phil laughed to cover his embarrassment. He had not reckoned on Junior’s
giving him away to Nell, and knew that she was triumphing over him now
in silence.
“Your father never loves anybody before breakfast,” said Junior’s
mother, smiling as she covered him with kisses.
Apparently fathers could never be like mothers.
* * * * *
Nell knew it was a risk, but she wanted to be with Phil as much as he
wanted to be with her--the old life together they both loved. So they
decided that Junior was big enough now to stand the trip to Mongolia. It
was a great mistake. Before they had crossed Russia all of them
regretted it--except Junior. He was having a grand time. At present he
was working his way back from the door of the railway compartment to the
window again, and for the third time was stepping upon his father’s
feet. Phil had had a bad time with the custom officials, a bad time with
the milk boxes and a bad night’s sleep. His temper broke under the
strain.
“Oh, children are a damn nuisance,” he growled.
“Come, dear, look at these funny houses out of the window,” said
Junior’s mother. “Aren’t they funny houses?”
That night when she was putting him to sleep with the recital of those
who loved him, Junior inquired, “Mamma, what is a damn nuisance?”
“A damn nuisance,” said his mother, “is a perfect darling.”
All the same he had learned that he must avoid stepping on his father’s
freshly polished boots. One more item added to the list. Mustn’t touch
him with sticky hands, mustn’t play with his pipes, mustn’t make a noise
when he takes his nap on the train--so many things to remember, such a
small head to keep them all in.
There was no more milk. There was very little proper food of any kind
for Junior in the camp, although Phil sent a small-sized expedition away
over the divide for the purpose. The boy became ill. Phil ordered a
special train to bring a famous physician. He even neglected this work
on the boy’s account, something unprecedented for Phil. But this was no
place for children. The boy would have to go home. That meant that his
mother would too.... All the beautiful dream of being together spoiled.
“I’m going back to America because I am a damn nuisance to my father,”
Junior announced to Phil’s assistant.
Phil neglected his work again and went with them as far as the border.
“But you do love him,” said Nell; “you know you do. You’d give up your
life for him.”
“Naturally. All I object to is giving up my wife for him.”
But Phil’s last look was at the poor little sickly boy. He wondered if
he would ever see him again. He did. But he never saw his wife again.
It was too late to do anything about it. His assistant, who had seen
these married lovers together, marvelled at the way his silent chief
went about the day’s work until his responsibility to the syndicate was
discharged. Then he marvelled more when just as the opportunity of a
professional lifetime came to Phil he threw up his job and started for
home.
He meant to stay there. He would get into the office end of the work and
devote the rest of his life to Nell’s boy. That was his job now.
Previously he had left it to her--too much so. The brave girl! Never a
whine in all the blessed years of their marriage. The child until now
had seemed merely to belong to him, a luxury he did not particularly
want. Now he belonged to the child, a necessity, and being needed made
Phil want him. But the Great War postponed this plan.
So Junior continued to live with his devoted Aunt Mary. She cherished
his belief in Phil’s perfection, but she could not understand why her
busy brother never wrote to his adoring little son. But for that matter,
Phil never wrote to his adoring little sister. He never wrote letters at
all, except on business. He sent telegrams and cables--long, expensive
ones.
On the memorable day when father and son were reunited at last an
unwelcome shyness came upon them and fastened itself there like a bad
habit. Neither knew how to break it. Each looked at the other wistfully
with eyes that were veiled.
Junior was more proud of his wonderful father now than ever. Phil had a
scar on his chin. The boy was keen to hear all about it. His father did
not seem inclined to talk of that, and Junior had a precocious fear of
boring him. He had made up his mind never to be a damn nuisance to his
father again. He had long since discovered the meaning of those words.
Phil soon became restless and discontented with office work. He had done
the other thing too long and too well to enjoy civilization for more
than a month or so at a time, and the financial crowd infuriated him. He
was interested in mining problems. They were interested in mining
profits.
Owing to changes wrought by the war another great opportunity had arisen
in a part of the world Phil knew better than any other member of his
profession. “It’s a man’s job,” they told him, “and you’re the only one
who could swing it.”
Phil shook his head. “Not fair to the boy.”
“But with the contract we’re prepared to offer you, why, your boy will
be on Easy Street all his life.”
That got him. “Just once more,” thought Phil. “I’ll clean up on this and
then retire to the country--make a real home for him--dogs and horses.
I’ll teach him to shoot and fish. That ought to bring us together.”
So Junior’s father was arranging to go away again. He told the boy about
the plan for the future. “And we’ll spend a lot of time in the woods
together,” said Phil. “I’ll make a good camper of you. Your mother was a
good camper.” This comforted the silent little fellow and he did not
let the tears come until after Phil’s back was turned.
Meanwhile Phil had been going into the school question with the same
thoroughness he devoted to every other job he undertook.
And now the epochal time had come for Junior to go away to boarding
school. He was rather young for it, but Aunt Mary, it seems, was going
to be married at last.
She volunteered to accompany the boy on the journey and see him through
the first day. His father was very busy, of course, with preparations
for his much longer and more important journey. Junior had always been
fond of Aunt Mary, had transferred to her a little of the passionate
devotion that had belonged to his mother. Only a little. The rest was
all for his father, though Phil did not know it, and sometimes watched
these two together with hungry eyes, wondering how they laughed and
loved so comfortably.
On the evening before the great day his father said, “I know several of
the masters up there.” A little later, he added, “One of the
housemasters was a classmate of mine at college.” Then he said, “I’ve
been thinking it over. Maybe I better go up there with you myself.”
“Oh, if you only would!” thought the little fellow. But he considered
himself a big fellow now and had learned to repress such impulses, just
as he and the dogs had learned not to jump up and kiss Phil’s face. So
all Junior said was, “That’s awfully kind of you, but can you spare the
time?” He always became self-conscious in his father’s presence.
“You’d rather have your Aunt Mary? Well, of course, that’s all right.”
“No, but”--Junior dropped his eyes and raised them again--“sure I won’t
be a nuisance to you?”
Phil had forgotten the association of that word. All he saw was that the
boy wanted him more than he did Mary and it pleased him tremendously.
“Then that’s all fixed,” he said.
The housemaster was of the hearty pseudo-slangy sort. He said to
Junior’s father, “Skinny little cuss, isn’t he? Well, we’ll soon build
him up.”
“Aleck, I want you to take good care of this fellow,” said Phil. “He’s
all I’ve got, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll keep a strict eye on him, and if he gets fresh I’ll bat him
over the head.”
Junior knew that he was supposed to smile at this and did so. He did not
feel much like smiling. He discovered that he was to be in the
housemaster’s house. He did not believe that he would ever like this Mr.
Fielding, but he did in time.
As it came nearer and nearer his father’s train time the terrible
sinking feeling became worse, and he was afraid that he might cry after
all; and that would disgrace his father. They walked down to the station
together. They walked slowly. They would not see each other again for a
year--maybe two. Both were thinking about it, neither referring to it.
“I suppose that’s the golf links over there?” said Junior.
“I suppose so,” said Phil. He hadn’t looked.
There were a number of fathers and a greater number of mothers saying
good-bye. Some of the mothers were crying, all of them were kissing
their boys. Even some of the fathers did that. Junior and Phil saw it.
They glanced at each other and away again, both wondering whether it
would be done by them; each hoping so, yet fearing it wouldn’t be. Phil
remembered how when he was a youngster he hated to be kissed before the
other boys. He did not want to mortify the manly little fellow; and the
boy knew better than to begin such things. (“Don’t bore your father.”)
“Well,” said Phil, looking at his watch, “I suppose I might as well get
on the train.” Then he laughed as though that were funny. “Good-bye,” he
said. “Work hard and you’ll have a good time here. Good-bye, Junior.”
The father held out his hand.
The son shook it. “Good-bye, Father, I’ll bet you have a great trip in
the mountains.” And Junior laughed too. The train pulled out, and the
forlorn little boy was alone now. Worse. Surrounded by strangers.
“Well, I didn’t mortify him, anyway,” said the father.
“Well, I didn’t cry before him, anyway,” said the son. But he was doing
it now.
The veil between them was not yet lifted.
Junior had a roommate named Black. So he was called Blackie. Blackie had
a nice mother who used to come to see him frequently. Junior took
considerable interest in mothers, observed them closely when even the
most observant of them were quite unaware of it. He approved of his
roommate’s mother, despite her telling Blackie not to forget his
rubbers, dear. Blackie glanced at Junior to see if he was listening.
Junior pretended that he wasn’t.
“Aren’t mothers queer?” said Blackie after she had gone.
“Sure,” said Junior.
“Always worrying about you. You know how it is.”
“Sure.”
“I bet your mother’s the same way.”
Junior hesitated. “My mother’s dead,” he said. “Bet I can beat you to
the gate.” They raced and Junior beat him.
But he soon perceived that he would never make an athlete, and so he was
a nonentity all through the early part of his school career, one of the
little fellows in the lower form, thin legs and squeaky voice.
The things on the walls of Junior’s room--spears, arrows, shields, and
an antelope head--first drew attention to Junior’s only distinction.
That was why he had put them there.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said with some arrogance, after the expected
admiration and curiosity had been elicited. “You just ought to see my
father’s collection.” And this gave Junior his chance to tell about the
collector. “These things--only some junk he didn’t want and sent to me.”
This was not strictly true. His father had not sent them. Junior had
begged them from his aunt, and she was glad to get them out of her new
house. They did not go in any of her rooms. It was soon spread about the
school, as Junior knew it would be, that this skinny little fellow in
the lower form had a father who was worth while, a dare-devil who led
expeditions to distant and dangerous lands and seldom lived at home. He
had killed his man, it seems, had nearly lost his life from an attack by
a hostile tribe in Africa. He became a romantic, somewhat mythical
figure.
“When my old man was in college,” said Smithy, also a lower-form boy and
envious of Junior’s vicarious fame, “he made the football team.”
“My father was the captain of his eleven,” said Junior.
“My father was in the war,” said Smithy.
“Mine was wounded.”
But he soon observed that one could not boast too openly about one’s
father. Smithy made that mistake about the family possessions--yachts
and the like. He was squelched by an upper-form boy. Junior became
subtle. He caused questions to be asked and answered them reluctantly,
it seemed.
Many of the boys had photographs of fathers in khaki. Junior went them
one better. After the Christmas holidays the crowded mantelpiece
included an old faded kodak of Phil in a tropical explorer’s
costume--white helmet, rifle, binoculars, cartridge belt. It had been
taken as a joke by one of his engineer associates in Africa but it was
taken seriously by Junior and his associates in school.
“Where is the scar from the African spear thrust?” asked Smithy.
“It doesn’t show in the picture,” said Junior, “but he often lets me see
it. He and I always go fishing together in the North Woods when he’s in
this country. Long canoe trips. I enjoy camping with him because he’s
had a pretty good deal of experience at that sort of thing.”
Junior established a very interesting personality for Phil.
“Gee! I wish my father was like that,” said one of the boys. “My old man
always gives me hell.”
One day during the second year Blackie said, “June, why doesn’t your
father ever come here to see you?”
“Oh, he’s so seldom in this country, and he’s terribly busy when he gets
here. Barely has time to jump from one large undertaking to another.” He
had heard Aunt Mary’s husband say “large undertaking.”
“Well, some of the fellows think you’re just bluffing about your
father.”
“Huh! They’re jealous. Look at Smithy’s father. Nothing but money and
fat. Huh!”
Then came the great day when a wireless arrived for Junior. Very few
boys get messages from their fathers by wireless. “Land Friday,” it
said. “Coming to see you Saturday.” Ah! That would show them!
Junior jumped into a sort of first-page prominence in the news of the
day. He let some of his friends see the wireless. And now all of them
would see his father on Saturday. That was the day of the game. Junior
would have a chance to exhibit him before the whole school. “Six feet
two and well proportioned.” “Captain of his team in college.” He planned
it all out carefully. They would arrive late at the game and Junior
would lead him down the line. But he would do it with a matter-of-fact
manner as if used to going to games with his father.
On Friday he received a telegram. “Sorry can’t make it stop am wiring
headmaster permission spend week-end with me stop meet at office lunch
time stop go to ball game and theatre in the evening.” It was a straight
telegram at that, not a night letter. That would show the boys what kind
of a father he had.
“Hot dog!” they said. “But look here! You’ll miss the game.”
“The game” meant the great school game, of course, not the mere
world-series event Junior was going to.
“Well, you see, he doesn’t have many chances to be with me. I’ll have to
go.” A dutiful son.
But on Saturday morning he received another telegram. “Sorry must
postpone our spree together letter follows.”
He was beginning to wonder if his father really wanted to see him. It
was a great jolt to his pride. He had counted upon letting the boys know
where they lunched, what play they saw together, and perhaps there might
be a few hairbreadth escapes to relate.
“He can’t come,” said Junior to his roommate, tearing up the telegram.
“Why can’t he?” asked Blackie. Did Blackie suspect anything? His parents
never let anything prevent their seeing Blackie.
“Invited to the White House,” said Junior, tossing the torn telegram
into the fire. “The President wants to consult him about conditions in
Siberia.”
“Gee!” This made a sensation and it would spread. “But aren’t you going
to see him at all?”
“Of course. Going down next week probably, but you know an invitation to
the White House is a command.”
“That’s so.” Junior’s father’s stock was soaring.
That evening Smithy dropped in. He had heard about the White House and
the President.
“Huh! I don’t believe you’ve got a father,” said Smithy.
Junior only smiled and glanced at his roommate. Later Blackie told the
others that Smithy was jealous. “His father has nothing but money and
fat.” Junior was always too much for Smithy. But suppose the promised
letter did not follow. It hardly seemed possible. He had received
occasional cables, several telegrams, and that one notable wireless, but
never in all his life a letter from his father.
It came promptly. It was brief and it was dictated, but it was a letter
all the same, and he was much impressed. He had a letter from his
father, like other fellows. It explained that the writer had been called
away to New Mexico by important business, but that he hoped to join his
son during the summer. “It’s time we got acquainted. With much love,
Your Father.”
“Well, we’re going to meet during the summer anyway,” thought Junior,
folding up the letter. And his father had sent his love. To be sure, he
sent it through his secretary. But he sent it all the same.
That evening Junior arranged to be found casually reading a letter when
the gang dropped in.
“What have you got?” asked Smithy.
“Oh, just a letter from my father,” remarked Junior casually. “Wants to
know if I won’t go out to the Canadian Rockies with him next summer.” He
seemed to keep on reading. It was a bulky letter apparently. Junior had
attached three blank sheets of paper at the same size as that on which
the note was written.
“Gee! Your old man writes you long ones,” said Smithy. “What’s it all
about?”
“Oh, he merely wanted to tell me about his conference with the
President.”
“Hot dog! Read it aloud.”
“Sorry, Smithy, but it’s confidential!” Folded in such a way that its
brevity was concealed, Junior carelessly exposed the first sheet bearing
his father’s engraved letterhead. “Confidential” had been written by pen
across the top. Junior had written it.
All this produced the calculated effect for his father, but it was cold
comfort for the son.
Well, he did see his father at last, but it was during the summer
vacation, and the boys would know nothing about it until the fall term
opened. Junior was staying with Aunt Mary in the country, and came in
for the day. Phil was dictating letters and jumped up with a loud
“Hello, there, hello!” And this time he kissed his son, right in front
of his secretary. She was the only one of the three not startled. Phil
and Junior both blushed.
“Mrs. Allison, this is Junior,” said Phil. He seemed to be really glad
to see the boy, and Junior’s heart was thumping. Mrs. Allison said,
“Pleased, to meet you,” but Junior liked her all the same. She looked
kind. And while her employer finished his dictation she glanced at
Junior and smiled. The letter progressed slowly and had to be changed
twice. Mrs. Allison knew why, and smiled again, at her pencil this time.
She understood them both better than they understood each other.