William was not long in fulfilling his promise to Miss Whimple to take
his younger brothers and sisters up to spend a Saturday afternoon at
her house. His mother started early on the task of getting them ready,
and spent an anxious hour keeping them clean and tidy until William
arrived from the office and "cleaned up." She watched them, with pride
and tenderness on her face, as they departed, Bessie and Joey, aged six
and four years respectively, in front, where, as William put it, he
could "keep an eye on 'em;" William and Pete, with Dolly, the baby, two
years old, toddling along between them. As a shepherd, William herded
them by street car and on foot, until they reached the Whimple house.
Miss Whimple was at the gate to meet them. "Here's the bunch, Miss
Whimple," he said smilingly, and then contrived to get in an aside to
Pete, "Now you mind what I said about behavin' or I'll knock your block
off when we gets away."
The youngsters were timid and shy. They hung to William closely for a
while, with hazy notions only of what to do with themselves, and from
sheer embarrassment rebuffing the kindly advances of Miss Whimple and
the maid. They began to feel more at home when Miss Whimple suggested
a tour of the grounds, and a visit to the barn to see the cows, two
fine Jerseys, and presently they began to talk to her and to one
another with freedom, all but Dolly. Miss Whimple, who was greatly
taken with the little toddler, noticed that William was particularly
tender toward her, his hands were ever ready to lift her, or guide her
over rough ground, he suited his steps to hers when she walked, and all
the time he kept up a running fire of baby talk. Dolly was all dimples
and smiles; she seemed to be perfectly happy and contented, but she
made no sound. It was some time before Miss Whimple noticed this, and
when she said to the little one, "Such a little pet, I'll warrant you
talk a lot to your mammy though," Dolly smiled at her and then turned
to William her wonderful brown eyes full of questioning. William
smiled back, "She likes oo, Dolly," he said softly, and then looked at
Miss Whimple, his eyes moist, his lips trembling a little. He tried to
speak, but could not find words. But Miss Whimple understood. Her
hands went to her breast. "Oh--" she murmured, "I--I--didn't
understand, William, I--I----" Down on her knees she went near one of
the flower beds, pulled therefrom a rose, and, with the tears
streaming, pinned the flower to Dolly's dress, saying half to herself,
"Deaf and dumb--deaf and dumb--poor little mite. God bless
you--and--help you."
Thereafter she made Dolly her special care, and the child seemed to
like it, making occasional dashes on to the lawn to join William and
the others, whose restraint having passed were playing with joyous
zest, under the direction of the elder brother.
It was getting near to tea time when "Chuck" Epstein appeared on the
scene. Tired of their play, the children had assembled on the
verandah, Dolly sitting on Miss Whimple's knee looking over a picture
book, the others listening to one of William's fairy stories. "Chuck,"
whose acquaintance with Miss Whimple dated back many years, took a seat
near them. He was joyfully greeted by William and "the bunch," and
Miss Whimple felt something like a pang of jealousy when Dolly wriggled
from her knee and went to Epstein. It was only for a moment though,
the child was palpably so delighted to be with the old comedian, whose
smile of greeting to her was wonderfully expressive. He tenderly
lifted her to his knees, and with an arm around her little body, held
her close to his side. William was dethroned, and he knew it, and
accepted the situation quite calmly, though he did not laugh so
heartily as the others when Pete demanded, "Tell us one of your
stories, Mr. Epstein, they beat Billy's to bits." And Epstein told
one, and then another, and another. He acted them too. The children
screamed with delight as he changed his voice to each character of the
story, yes, and changed his very appearance as they watched him, and
all so naturally, so easily, that they seemed to be hearing and seeing
so many different people taking part in the unfolding of the tales.
They were almost hanging to the old man, when the maid appeared with
the announcement that tea was ready. They entered the airy
dining-room, crowding around "Chuck," all begging to be allowed to sit
next him, and the argument grew so heated that William had to settle
it. "Dolly on one side," he said with emphasis, "and Bessie on the
other, and everybody keeps quiet or gets out," and then in a loud
whisper to Pete and Joey, "Don't you be makin' hogs of yourselves. No
more'n three pieces of cake, mind."
But the terror of William's threats faded before the hunger of "the
bunch," and the determination of Miss Whimple and the maid, to say
nothing of Epstein, to see that it was appeased. Pete ate until even
to chew became a decided effort, and when Miss Whimple pressed him to
take "just one more piece of pie," he answered wearily, "It ain't no
good, Miss Whimple--I'm full to the collar bone."
William, who had been glaring at him for some time, remarked
scathingly, "Gee, you'd think you never got a square meal at home," to
which Pete promptly retorted, "Well, I wasn't going to let Miss Whimple
think I couldn't eat her cooking."
Tired, happy, and full, William and "the bunch" departed at last, Miss
Whimple and Epstein going with them to the electric car--a quarter of a
mile away from the house--the old comedian, despite the protests of
Miss Whimple and William, carrying Dolly all the way. He kissed her
gently as he placed her in the car, and the child threw her arms around
his neck and pressed her little cheek against his for a moment ere he
left.
When the car had disappeared from view, Epstein escorted Miss Whimple
home. They walked in silence for a little distance, and then she asked
him suddenly, "When did you first meet William?"
"Three years ago," he said smilingly. "It was a chance meeting. You
know," with a touch of sadness in his voice, "the people of my race are
not always kindly treated--even in so new a country as this--and so
big," he went on musingly. "Who shall say what Canada is to be in the
future?--I see things, I see things--a great northern power; men of
many races blended together in one great nationality under the British
flag. Well for her that her statesmen build truly, well for her----"
he broke off abruptly, and with a quiet, "I beg your pardon, we were
talking of William. I was walking along the street one day, in a
section of the city where many of our people live, when a 'rags and
bones man' came along trundling a well-laden push cart. Three young
roughs began to bait him. They threw his cap into the middle of the
street, overturned his cart, and began to attack him when William's
father intervened. He was driving his express wagon near the scene.
He jumped from the wagon, laid one of the roughs out with his fist, and
turned on the other two. William, who had been riding with his Pa,
took a hand in the proceedings then, climbing from the wagon and using
the whip on the roughs. They turned and fled. William and his Pa
helped the 'rags and bones man' to right his push cart, and then I
introduced myself to them. The father turned my commendation aside
with a good-natured remark to the effect that three to one wasn't fair
play, and William added, 'What Pa says goes,' and there you are. He's
a brave lad, a good lad, full of mischief I know, but--but he's full of
determination too. William will go a long way. I will not live to see
it; my days are few now, but I'll die the happier," he added softly,
"for having known William Adolphus Turnpike."