William was William, the fun lover, still; you must not think
otherwise. True, he regarded his work more seriously than in the days
when he first engaged himself as office boy to Whimple, and his
persistency, determination, and devotion to his studies under the
tuition of Epstein were beginning, as hereinbefore chronicled, to bear
fruit. But William was William still: you read that before; it is
necessary, perhaps, to emphasise it. An irrepressible love of fun, and
a cheerful temper, continued to be his great assets; he radiated
sunshine as of yore. But back of all was a tender heart; a heart that
was rich in sympathy, and was ever responsive to appeals for help or
comfort. To his mother he continued to be a sort of puzzle; she never
really understood him, in fact, and his successes always came as a
surprise to her. Pete, curly-headed and sturdy, with his fondness for
fighting, his love of schoolboy sports, and his healthy appetite, she
could understand. But William; she used to look at him sometimes when
he was "cheering up the bunch," and wonder if she would ever just know
how much of it was earnest and just what was put on.
This attitude of his mother's troubled William more than anything else
at this period. His love for her was unalloyed by any feeling toward
any other woman or girl of his acquaintance; he often called her his
"sweetheart." He was more gentle toward her than any other member of
the household, with the exception of little deaf and dumb Dorothy, and
he continually sought her advice in matters of family interest. Yet he
knew that she brooded over him often; and because he knew the reason of
it, so keen was his intuition, he tried to reveal the real William to
her more completely than to any one else.
Miss Whimple came nearer to "diagnosing" William than any of the women
who knew him at this time.
"I've seen that boy," she said to Sally, "give his last cent to help
people in distress: I've known him to go to trouble that would worry a
grown man in order to assist some shiftless body to get a position, for
his trust in people is not easily shaken. But we'll never know the
real William until--until----"
Sally waited, and in a little while Miss Whimple went on. "Just now,
and for a long time to come, I think, his mind will be so strongly set
upon success on the stage that he will not allow anything to come
between. And, if his health remains good, it seems to me that our
fondest hopes for him in that direction will fall far short of the
realisation. But one day, Sally Miller, there will come to William
that which comes to every one of us sooner or later."
"Yes."
"Yes," said Miss Whimple, so low that the girl hardly caught the words,
"yes--love will come to William. It will have to fight its way over
many barriers, but in the end his heart will be carried by storm. Then
we will know a new William Adolphus Turnpike, or some of you younger
folks will, for I'm too old to be expecting that the good Lord will let
me live to see that, and William in love will be worth seeing. You
know," she continued in a lighter tone, "I asked him one day just a
little while ago if he had a sweetheart, and he looked at me with that
gleam in his eyes we all know so well as he answered, 'Sure!'
"'Who is it?' I asked.
"'You'd know as much as I do if I told you,' he said.
"That made me angry, of course, and I told him he was lucky enough to
be too big for me to thrash, as I tried to do the first time I saw him;
and you should have seen him grin.
"'Miss Whimple,' said he, 'I'll never forget you and the parasol as
long as I live. Say, it was----' but I broke in with, 'Now, who is
your sweetheart, William?' and what do you think he said?"
"'Mother.'"
"Exactly! And I knew he was serious about it, too, though, like a
foolish old woman, I must needs go on to tell him that a boy of his age
ought to have a real sweetheart. Well, presently he became very quiet,
his mouth set firmly, as it does when he is thinking hard, and he
looked straight at me. 'Miss Whimple, you know what real love is,' he
said. 'I hope when it comes to me I'll be as worthy of it and as true
as you have been,' and then--why, he was the real William again in a
flash. 'Say,' he said, 'why don't you go out to a ball game once in a
while? Lots of ladies go, and the way the Torontos are playing this
season it looks like they'd be champions again for the second time in
four years. Honest, they've got me wild, and Tommy Watson's crazier
than I am. He can't go to the games as often as he used to, because
he's looney about his wife and little Tommy too. So, when I go and he
doesn't I have to tell the whole story of the game to him, and--say,
excuse me, I'll just have time to get to the grounds to see the last
four innings,' and away he went.
"Once I asked Whimple if William had a girl, and he told me the boy was
too busy. That's the kind of a fool answer a man makes when he either
doesn't know, or does know and won't tell. Then he told me about a
trick that Tommy Watson and himself played on William, only it didn't
work out in the way they expected. It puzzles me to know how men find
time to go into such silliness. Between them they wrote a letter, in a
disguised hand, of course, and supposedly from a girl to William. He
had been taking part in one of the amateur performances that Epstein
arranged for the Children's Hospital, and the letter declared that the
writer had been so touched by the wonderful ability displayed by
William that she felt she might be forgiven if she did so unmaidenly a
thing as to ask for a personal interview. William got the letter--the
over-grown boys saw to that--read it through carefully, stowed it away
in one of his pockets, and--well, as Tommy Watson says, he just sat
tight.
"A few days afterwards they wrote another, to which William was to send
a reply to a certain post-office box. But there was no sign of an
answer. A third letter was written, imploring the recipient to have
mercy, or words to that effect, and two days afterwards a detective
called on Whimple and Tommy Watson. He found them together in Tommy's
store and opened the conversation with the hope that they were not
writing any more love letters. They were dumbfounded. Before they
could even think of an explanation the detective warned them in his
most official manner that the gentleman whom they were annoying by
their devotion to the art of letter-writing had decided that on receipt
of further epistles he would institute proceedings, and start with a
full statement to the press on the matter, including the names of the
letter writers.
"They had sense enough to take the hint, anyway, and enough sense left
over to keep from talking to William about it. I asked Whimple if
William had ever referred to the subject, and he said not directly.
But one afternoon he found one of the letters lying on his desk. He
took it to Tommy Watson, who told him he had found one on his desk too."
"I wonder what Tommy said about it?" said Sally.
"Oh! he had one of his made-to-order proverbs on hand, to be sure. He
said, 'Well, you know what our old friend Shakespeare said, "It's a
wise old one that gets ahead of a bright young one."'"
"He's really clever, is William," commented Sally.
"Yes, and like all clever people he is sometimes taken in. But I'll
say this much for him, he isn't easily gold-bricked, and he learns the
lessons of experience thoroughly. He's like his 'Pa' in that respect,
and he's as loyal to his 'Pa' as ever. In all the time I have known
him he's looked upon his 'Pa' as the smartest man he knows."
"Yes," said Sally, smiling. "Whenever he wants to impress one as to
the cleverness of some other person he brings in 'Pa,' and he always
adds, 'It's a wise guinea who can put one over on my Pa.'"
"It is, too," said Miss Whimple. 'Pa' Turnpike is one of the shrewdest
men I ever met, and one of the kindliest too. William and 'the
bunch'--can't you imagine you hear him saying it, Sally?--'the bunch'
are proud of 'Pa,' and they have a right to be."