It was Miss Whimple who heard the first detailed account of William's
experiences as a rent collector, and she heard it from William's own
lips. She sent a note to the office one day, asking Whimple to send
the lad up, ostensibly with some papers, "but in reality," she added,
"because I want him to take luncheon with me; I want to ask him about
some things."
"And if she wants to ask him she'll ask him, all right," Whimple mused
to himself, "and William 'll have to answer, for Aunt is a remarkably
bright woman, and a remarkably direct woman, too."
To William he said, "You'll take these papers up to Miss Whimple, and
you'll take luncheon with her at her house----"
"I'll--I'll--what's that?"
"Take luncheon with her."
"Gee!" said William, and then--"Say, honest, Mister Whimple, has she
gotter bunch of servants?"
"No--only two."
"A butler?"
"No--no, a maid, and a man who looks after the grounds and the horse
and that kind of work."
"Gosh, I'm glad of that. The idea of me eatin' with rich folks with
one of them solemn butlers that you read about standing behind me
chair--why, honest, I'd choke to death on the first bite."
Leaving Whimple, William marched into Simmons' office and demanded of
Lucien Torrance, "Have you gotter clean han'kerchief?"
Lucien said he had, and produced one in proof of his assertion.
William snatched it from him; seized the jug of ice water, the common
property of the occupants, soused one corner of the handkerchief, and
calmly, but vigorously, wiped his face with it, using the unwetted
portion to dry his visage. Lucien's protests had no effect on William.
"Don't get mad, Lucien," he said soothingly. "I'm invited out to eat
with a lady. I gotter keep my own han'kerchief clean, and you wouldn't
like me to go with a dirty face, I know. Just hang it outer the window
and it'll be dry in a minute," and thereupon he departed.
Miss Whimple lived a considerable distance beyond the then city limits.
She occupied what had once been a farm-house, solidly built, and
surrounded by several acres of land, including a small but excellent
orchard. She owned a good deal of land in the neighbourhood, now one
of Toronto's finest residential districts.
As William turned into the driveway leading to the front entrance, he
was hailed by a man who was cutting the grass around one of the flower
beds. "What'll you be wantin', laddie?" said the grass-cutter.
"To see Miss Whimple," answered William readily.
"And what for?"
William eyed the questioner, and with a gleam of mischief in his eyes,
replied quietly, "On business."
"Aye--business, they'll all be saying that. She'll no see ye, ma lad,
so you better be tellin' me, and maybe I'll be able to tell ye the way
to be goin' aboot it."
"What part of Scotland did you come from?" asked William sweetly. The
man glowered at him--the boy went on, "You could never deny you came
from Scotland, the thistles is just stickin' out on you in bunches."
"You're a verra cheeky young----" began the man, but William cut him
short with, "Save your breath, Scotty, I know more about myself than
you can ever guess." And then changing his tone, he asked sharply, "Do
you own this place?"
"Miss Whimple is the owner, young man, and I'm thinking----"
"Don't--don't get to thinkin'. It'll stop the grass-cutting if you do;
but seeing that you don't own the place I guess it's no good asking you
what you'll take for it----"
"Ye young----" began the man, but whatever else he might have said he
kept to himself, for at that moment a woman appeared at the front
entrance of the house and called, "John, ye'll be leaving the laddie
alone--Miss Whimple's expectin' him."
William walked up to the woman, lifted his cap, and asked in his best
manner, "That gentleman back there a relative of yours?" She smiled at
the audacity of it perhaps, but answered, "Aye, the gowk's marrit till
me, but I'm sometimes feared I made a mistake takin' peety on him.
Will ye come in--if your name happens to be Tur'r'rnpike."
"Well, it's something like that," answered William cordially as he
stepped inside, "but it don't often get so many 'r's' slung into it."
Miss Whimple appeared in the hallway and extended a hand to William,
who squeezed it heartily and hoped the lady was well. She was, she
said.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said William.
"Umph--it doesn't take the boys long to follow the example of the men.
Now, you don't really care a cent about my health, and you know it!"
"You're wrong, Miss Whimple," he answered, and there was earnestness in
his tone. "I like people I know to be well--most of them anyway."
"You don't care whether the others are or not?"
"Well, some of 'em--some of 'em. You see there's a few wouldn't know
what to do with themselves if they was well, and the others--well,
never mind 'em."
That was a rare luncheon. William ate heartily and praised the
cooking, two things that pleased both Miss Whimple and the maid. "I'm
good and hungry," he said by way of explanation, "and Pa always says it
ain't no disgrace to be hungry, and it's only a chump what won't eat
all he can when he gets next to it. There's enough as can't get what
they want to eat, he says, when they need it most, without anybody's
what's hungry playing manners when they can get it."
He liked Miss Whimple's direct manner of speech and her habit of
insisting upon answers to her determined questioning. It was in answer
to her demand that he gave the story of his experiences as a rent
collector, and he gave it well. He started out easily enough, but was
quick to see that she was following him with keen interest; he noticed,
too, that the maid had ceased altogether the "clearing away" process,
and was standing by her mistress, listening with shining eyes and mouth
slightly open. Their interest thrilled him, it mattered not that the
audience numbered only two--it was to him as though nothing in the
world mattered but the recital of his story in such a manner as that
those two should live it with him. He rose as the recital proceeded
and paced the floor, using the chairs occasionally to indicate the
positions of himself or some of the others who had played their parts.
And the women laughed and applauded, or murmured words of sympathy and
understanding as the tale proceeded. It came to an end somewhat
abruptly, William suddenly embarrassed, half ashamed, altogether shy,
longing to get out of the house and back to the office. "And that's
all," he ended curtly.
"And did Mrs. Moriarity say anything when she kissed you?" asked Miss
Whimple slyly. William blushed--he did not often feel so hot and
uncomfortable at a mere question. He felt a sudden rush of anger at
himself for blushing, and some annoyance at Miss Whimple as the cause
of it, and it was only after she had repeated the question that he
answered, "Yes--she--she--says, 'God bless ye, darlint.'"
They allowed him to go finally, but it was only after Miss Whimple had
exacted from him a promise that he would bring Pete and the other young
members of the Turnpike family to spend a Saturday afternoon with her.
The maid accompanied him to the door, and stood watching him as he
walked down the path towards the gate. William noticed that the
grass-cutting operations had brought the maid's husband closer to the
house. "John," said the maid, "ye'll nae be needin' tae stop the
laddie wi' ony of yer fulish questions. If there's onything to tell
aboot him, I'll tell it."
The man looked at her sharply, and William, as he passed him, said
softly, "Gee! but you married men have the hard times." And he ducked
in time to avoid a good-sized piece of wood that the man hurled at him.