ANOTHER GIFT
NEXT morning it was plain that the roses had brought about certain
differences in the flat. Not that there were any blunt orders, or
quarrels. Barber did not bring up the subject of Mr. Perkins and his
gift; in fact, he did not even address Cis once, though he eyed her
covertly now and again. But the good breakfast which Johnnie had risen
early to prepare was eaten in a quiet that was strained, as if a storm
were about to break. Johnnie could not keep his heart from thumping
unpleasantly. And he was limp with relief when, a moment or two after
Cis took her departure, the longshoreman went scuffing out.
Then Johnnie's recovery was swift. On waking he had whisked the flowers
into Cis's room, guessing that the mere sight of them would annoy
Barber. Now he fetched them out, let Grandpa enjoy a whiff of their
perfume, poured them fresh water (they held it like so many cups!), and
carried them to the window so they might breathe some outdoor air. As it
happened, that little girl with the dark hair was sitting on her fire
escape. Spying her, Johnnie waved the blossoms at her, receiving in
return a flashing smile.
He did not tarry long at the window. A scout does not fail to do a given
task; and on this summer day, with the early sky already a hot
gray-blue, the task to be done was the washing. Heat or no heat, the
boiler had to take its place on the stove. The soapy steam of the
cooking drove out the roses's scent of course, but that did not greatly
matter so long as, every minute or so, Johnnie was able to turn from his
washboard and enjoy their pink beauty.
By eleven o'clock he had the washing on the line. The flat was
straightened up, too, and Grandpa was looking his best. About noon,
Father Pat, coming slowly up the three flights, heard a series of slam
bangings coming from the direction of the Barber flat--also, sharp
toot-toots, and heavy chugs. And when the priest opened the hall door
and peeped in, a conductor's bell was ding-dinging, while the empty wood
box was careening madly in the wake of the wheel chair.
"Ha-ha-a! Johnnie lad!" he hailed. "And, shure, is it a whole battery in
action that I'm seein'?"
Johnnie turned a pink and perspiring face which was suddenly all smiles.
To the joy of living a fascinating think was now added the joy of
finding still another person who was ready to share it. "It's the
biggest N'York S'press!" he declared. "And we're takin' our vacation
trip!"
"Ah, little pretender!" exclaimed the Father, fondly, and with something
like a note of pity. "But, oh, the idea o' me not recognizin' a train!
And especially the Twentieth Century Limited when I look her right in
the headlight!"
"We been t' the Ad'rondacks," informed Johnnie, "and we got a load o'
ice."
"Ah, and that's treasure, truly," agreed the Father, "on this scorchin'
day! And ye've put the same into a grand casket, if I'm not
mistaken"--indicating the box.
"A casket o' wood."
"But precious, what with coal so high!"
When the priest had settled himself in the morris chair, Johnnie came
to lean close to this new friend who was both an understanding and a
sympathetic soul. "Want t' hear a secret?" he half whispered.
Father Pat was as mysterious as possible. "Shure, and 'tis me business
t' hear secrets," he whispered back. "And what's more, I never tell!"
"Well," confided Johnnie, "there's a lot o' my friends--Jim Hawkins, and
Galahad, and Uncas, and, oh, dozens o' others--all just ready t' come
in!"
"No-o-o-o!"
"Honest!"
"Galahad, too!--him with the grand scarlet robe, and the chain mail t'
the knees, and the locks as bright as yer own! Well, I'm that glad t'
hear it! and that _excited_!"
Breathing a warning, Johnnie sped to the sink, rapped once, then twice,
then once again. A short wait, followed by soft pad-pads on the floor
overhead. Next down into sight at the window came the basket, filled to
the top with books.
At sight of the basket, for some reason Father Pat suddenly seemed
anxious; and as Johnnie drew it to the window sill, the priest pried
himself up out of the big chair. "Shure, 'tis divvlement!" he
pronounced. "Yet still 'tis grand! Only keep 'em all right there, lad
dear, and I'll come over t' be introduced."
Proudly and impressively Johnnie proffered first his _Aladdin_. Nodding
delightedly, the Father took it. "Yes, 'tis the very same Aladdin!" he
declared. "Ye know, I was afraid maybe the Aladdin I know and this one
were two diff'rent gentlemen. But, no!--Oh, in the beginnin' weren't ye
afraid, little reader dear, that this friend o' ours would end up wrong?
and be lazy and disobedient t' the last, gaddin' the streets when he
ought t' be helpin' his mamma?"
"But he turned out fine!" reminded Johnnie.
Now the other precious volumes had their introduction. And, "All
bread--_rale_ bread!" said the Father as he looked at them. "Not stones!
No!" But he handed them back rather too quickly, according to Johnnie's
idea. However, the latter was to know why at once; for with a sharp
glance toward the hall door, "Now, who d' ye think was sittin' on a step
in front o' the house as I came in--his dinner pail 'twixt his two
feet?" asked the priest. "The big ogre himself!"
"Oh!" The pipe rang to Johnnie's hurried knockings, which he repeated in
such a panic that Mrs. Kukor could be heard rocking about in excited
circles. And it seemed minutes (though it was not half of one) before
the basket-strings tightened and the books went jerking up to safety.
Then, "My! What if he'd walked in while they was down!" Johnnie
exclaimed. "And why didn't he go t' work? What's he waitin' for?"
They had the same explanation at the same moment. _Mr. Perkins!_ So what
might not happen, down there in the area, when the longshoreman, lying
in wait for his victim, stopped the giver of bouquets?
Something besides the heat of midday made Johnnie feel very weak of a
sudden, so that he had to sit down. "Now, shush! shush!" comforted the
Father. "Shure, and the ogre'll not be eatin' up anny scoutmaster this
day. No, no. There'll be nothin' more than a tongue-lashin', so breathe
easy, lad dear!"
"But Mister Perkins won't come any more!" argued Johnnie, plaintively.
"And so how'll I finish learnin' t' be a scout? Oh, Father Pat!"
While the next hour went by, it was an anxious little figure that sat
opposite the priest, listening, listening--for some loud angry words out
of the area, or heavy steps upon the stairs. That entrance below could
not be seen from the window. And Johnnie could not bring himself to go
down. One o'clock came and passed. But Mr. Perkins did not come. So,
undoubtedly, Big Tom had seen the scoutmaster. But whatever had
happened, all had been quiet. That was some consolation.
"It's funny about my friends," observed Johnnie at last. He shook a
discouraged head. "Some way, I never have more'n one at a time."
The Father set about cheering him up. "Ah-ha, now, and let's not worry a
bit more!" he urged. "Shure, and I've climbed up here this day t' ask ye
a question, which is: if Father Pat was t' say t' ye that he'd bring ye
a new book the next time he chanced by, why, then, little lover o'
readin', just what kind o' a book would ye best like t' have?"
Here was something to coax the mind away from concern! "Oh, my!" said
Johnnie. "_Another_ book? A _new_ one?" Getting up to think about his
answer, he chanced to glance out of the window. And instantly he knew
what he should like. "Oh, Father Pat!" he cried. "Has--has anybody ever
made up a book about the stars?"
"The stars!" the Father cried back. "Shure, lad dear, certain gentlemen
called astronomers have been writin' about the stars for hundreds o'
years. And they've named the whole lot! And weighed and measured 'em,
Johnnie,--think o' the impudence o' that! Yes, and they've weighed the
Sun, and taken the measure o' the Moon! Also, there's the comets,
which're called after the men who first find 'em. And, oh, think what
it's like t' have yer name tied t' the tail o' a comet for a million
years! Ho-ho! ho-ho! That's an honor! Ye never own the comet, still 'tis
yours!"
"My! I'd like t' find a Johnnie Smith comet!" declared Johnnie. "And
after all"--solemnly--"I think I won't try t' be President; nope, I'll
be a 'stronomer."
"Faith," rejoined the Father, the green eyes shining roguishly, "and
there's points o' resemblance 'twixt the two callin's. Both o' them, if
I ain't mistaken, are calculated t' keep a conscientious man awake o'
nights!"
"I'll be awful glad t' have a star-book," decided Johnnie. "Thank y' for
it."
The priest smiled fondly at the ragged little figure silhouetted against
the window. "Shure, and that's the book I'll be buying for ye," he
promised. "And in the crack o' a hen's thumb!"
The Father ended his visit to the building by going upstairs, which fact
Johnnie knew because of the walking around he could hear overhead, and
the chair scrapings. But before Father Pat left the Barber flat Johnnie
told him about going up on the roof (though he did not confess that Cis
knew about it, or that he had bought her silence with the toothbrush).
His new friend listened without a word of blame, only looking a trifle
grave. "And what do ye think ye ought t' do for Madam, the janitress?"
he asked when Johnnie had finished his admission. "For as I see it,
she's the one entitled t' complain."
"I'll tell y'," answered Johnnie, earnestly; "I've swept off the roof
twice, good's I could, and I've swept the stairs that go up t' the roof.
And once I swept this hall."
"A true scout!" pronounced the Father. "And I'm not doubtin' that if
ye'd promise t' go on doin' the same, Madam'd be glad t' let ye go up.
Suppose ye try the suggestion."
Johnnie promised to try.
Late that afternoon the saddest thing happened: the roses died. They had
been looking sick, and not at all like themselves, since before
noontime. As Johnnie, preparing to set his supper table, lifted the
quart milk bottle which held the bouquet, intending again to place it on
Cis's dressing-box, the flowers, with a sound that was almost like a
soft sigh, showered their crumpling petals upon the oilcloth. Shocked,
Johnnie set the bottle quickly down. But only seventeen bare stalks were
left in it. The last sweet leaf had dropped.
He stood for a little looking down. The first shock past, his whole
being became alive with protest. Oh, why should beautiful flowers ever
have to die? It was wrong! And there swept over him the hated
realization that an end comes to things. He could have wept then, but he
knew that scout boys do not give way to tears. For the first time in his
life he was understanding something of life's prime tragedy--change.
Girls grow up, dolls go out of favor, roses fade.
He could not bear to throw the petals away. Very gently he gathered them
up in his two hands and put them into a shallow crockery dish, and
sprinkled them with a little cool water. "Gee! What'll Cis say when she
sees them!" he faltered. (How live and sturdy they had seemed such a
little while ago!)
"Cis," he told her sadly when she came in (just a moment before Big Tom
returned from work), "Blanchfleur, and Cora, and Elaine, and Gertie, and
all--they fell t' pieces!"
She was not cast down by the news or the sight of the bowl. She had, she
said, expected it, the weather being warm and the flat hot. After that,
so far as he could see, she did not give the flowers another thought.
When he told her that Father Pat had discovered the longshoreman waiting
for Mr. Perkins in the area, she was not surprised or concerned. In the
usual evening manner, she brushed and freshened and pressed, smiling as
she worked. She seemed entirely to have forgotten all the unhappy hours
of the day before. True, she started if Barber spoke to her, and her
quaint face flushed. But that was all.
"Clear grown-up!" Johnnie told himself as he put the petals out of
sight on a cupboard shelf, laying the stems beside them.
"Everything's going to be all right," she assured him when she told him
good night, "now that we've got Father Mungovan." (So that was why she
was so happy! Or was it because she was engaged? Johnnie wondered.)
In the days that followed Father Pat became a familiar figure in and
about the area building. (And this was fortunate for Johnnie, since Mr.
Perkins's visits had suddenly come to an end.) Almost at any hour the
priest might be seen slowly crossing the brick pavement, or more slowly
climbing the stairs on his way to the Barber flat. When he was not at
Johnnie's, reading aloud out of the book on astronomy while Johnnie
threaded beads, he might be found overhead in Mrs. Kukor's bright
kitchen, resting in a rocker, a cup of tea nursed in both hands, and
holding long, confidential and (to Johnnie) mysterious conversations,
which the latter wished so much he might share, though he always
discouraged the wish, understanding that it was not at all polite to
want to be where he was not invited.
He and the priest, of course, had their own lengthy and delightful
talks. Sometimes it would be Johnnie who would have the most to say.
Perhaps he would tell Father Pat about one of his thinks: a vision, say,
of high roof-bridges, built far above the crowded, noisy
streets--arched, steel bridges, swung from the summit of one tall
building to another like the threads of a spider's web. Each bridge was
to be lighted by electricity, and "I'll push Grandpa's wheel chair all
across the top o' N'York!" he declared.
Father Pat did not laugh at this think. On the contrary, he thought it
both practical and grand. Indeed, he laughed at none of Johnnie's ideas,
and would listen in the gravest fashion as the boy described a new
think-bicycle which had arrived from Wanamaker's just that
minute--accompanied by a knife with three blades and a can opener. The
Father agreed that there were points in favor of a bicycle which took up
no room in so small a flat, and required no oiling. And if Johnnie went
so far as to mount the shining leather seat of his latest purchase and
circle the kitchen table (Boof scampering alongside), the priest would
look on with genuine interest, though the pretend-bicycle was the same
broomstick which, on other occasions, galloped the floor as a dappled
steed of Aladdin's.
As a matter of fact, Father Pat entered into Johnnie's games like any
boy. Unblushing, he telephoned over the Barber clothesline. More than
once, with whistles and coaxings and pats, he fed the dog! He even
thought up games of his own. "Now ye think I'm comin' in alone," he said
one morning. "That's because ye see nobody else. But, ho-ho! What
deceivin'! For, shure, right here in me pocket I've got a friend--Mr.
Charles Dickens!"
On almost every visit he would have some such surprise. Or perhaps he
would fetch in just a bit of news. "I hear they're thinkin' o' raisin' a
statoo o' Colonel Roosevelt at the Sixth Avenoo entrance to Central
Park," he told Johnnie one day. "And I'm informed it's t' be Roosevelt
the Rough Rider. Now at present the statoo's but a thought--a thought in
the minds o' men and women, but in the brain o' a sculptor in
particular. However, there'll come a day when the thought'll freeze into
bronze. Dear me, think o' that!"
At all times how ready and willing he was to answer questions! "Ask me
annything," he would challenge smilingly. He was a mine, a storehouse,
yes, a very fountain of knowledge, satisfying every inquiry, settling
every argument--even to that one regarding the turning of the earth. And
so Johnnie would constantly propound: How far does the snow fall? Why
doesn't the rain hurt when it hits? Do flies talk? What made Grandpa
grow old?
Ah, those were the days which were never to be forgotten!
There came a day which brought with it an added joy. So often Johnnie
had mourned the fact that he did not have more than one friend at a
time. But late on a blazing August afternoon, just as the Father was
getting up to take his leave, the hall door squeaked open slowly, and
there on the threshold, with his wide hat, his open vest, watchchain,
furred breeches and all, was One-Eye! ("Oh, two at a time, now!" Johnnie
boasted to Cis that night. "Two at a time!")
Yet at first he was not able to believe his own eyes. Neither was Father
Pat. The priest stared at the cowboy like a man in a daze. Then he
looked away, winking and pursing his lips. Once more he stared. At last,
one hand outstretched uncertainly, he crossed to One-Eye and cautiously
touched him.
Not understanding, One-Eye very respectfully took the hand, and shook
it. "How are y'?" he said.
"Ah! So ye _do_ exist!" breathed the Father, huskily. Then shaking hands
again, "Shure, I've heard about ye for this long time, but was under the
impression that ye was only a spook!"
Warm were the greetings exchanged now by the cowboy and Johnnie. One-Eye
was powerfully struck by the improvement in the latter's physical
appearance. "Gee-whillikens, sonny!" he cried. "W'y, y're not half as
peeked as y' used t' be! Y're fuller in the face! And a lot taller!
_Say!_" And when Johnnie explained that it was mostly due to a quart of
milk which a certain Mr. Perkins had been bringing to him six days out
of seven (until the supply had been cut off along with the visits of the
donor), without another syllable, up got One-Eye and tore out, leaving
the door open, and raising a pillar of dust on the stairs in the wake
of his spurs. He was back in no time, a quart of ice-cold milk in either
hand. "If he likes it," he explained to Father Pat, "and if it's good
for him, w'y, they ain't no reason under the shinin' sun w'y he can't
have it.--Sonny, I put in a' order for a quart ev'ry mornin'. And I paid
for six months in advance."
His own appearance was not what it had been formerly. He looked less
leathery, and lanker. In answer to Johnnie's anxious inquiry, he
admitted that he had been sick, "Havin' et off, accidental, 'bout half
a' inch o' mustache;" though, so far as Johnnie could see, none of the
sandy ornament appeared to be missing. And where had he been all this
long time? Oh, jes' shuttlin' 'twixt Cheyenne and the ranch.
His sickness had changed him in certain subtle ways. He had less to say
than formerly, did not mention Barber, did not ask after Cis, and
jiggled one foot constantly, as if he were on the point of again jumping
up and taking flight. Father Pat gone, he brightened considerably as he
discussed the departed guest. "Soldier, eh!" he exclaimed. "Wal, young
feller, I'll say this preachin' gent ain't no ev'ryday, tenderfoot
parson! No, ma'am! He's got savvy!"
He was politely attentive, if not enthusiastic, when Johnnie told him
more about Mr. Perkins, the future scout dwelling especially upon that
rosy time which would see him in uniform ("but how I'm goin' t' get
that, I don't know"). Johnnie did all the setting-up exercises for the
Westerner, too; and, as a final touch, displayed for his inspection an
indisputably clean neck!
But Johnnie had saved till the last the crowning news of all. And he
felt certain that if the cowboy had shown not more than a lively
interest in Father Pat, and had been only politely heedful regarding boy
scouts, things would be altogether different when he heard about the
engagement.
"One-Eye," began Johnnie, impressively, "I got somethin' _else_ t' tell
y'. Oh, it's somethin' that'll su'prise y' _awful_! What d' y' think it
is?"
One-Eye was in the morris chair at the time, his hat on, his single
organ of vision roving the kitchen. In particular, it roved in the
direction of the tiny room, where, through the open door, could be seen
dimly the gay paper flounces bedecking Cis's dressing-table. "Aw, I
dunno," he answered dully.
"But, _guess_, One-Eye!" persisted Johnnie, eager to fire the cowboy's
curiosity. "Guess! And I'll help y' out by tellin' y' this much: it's
'bout Cis."
Ah! That caught the interest! Johnnie could tell by the way that single
eye came shooting round to hold his own. "Yeh?" exclaimed the Westerner.
"Wal--? Wal--?" He leaned forward almost impatiently.
"Cis and Mister Perkins 're goin' t' be married."
One-Eye continued to stare; and Johnnie saw the strangest expression
come into the green eye. Anger seemed a part of that expression, and
instantly Johnnie regretted having shared the news (but why _should_ the
cowboy be angry?) Also there was pain in the look. Then did One-Eye
disapprove?
At this last thought, Johnnie hastened to explain how things stood in
the flat. "Big Tom, he don't know they're goin' t' be married," he said,
"and we'd be 'fraid t' tell him."
"I--I savvy." Now One-Eye studied the floor. Presently, as if he were
busy with his thoughts, he reached up and dragged his hat far down over
his blind eye. The hat settled, he settled himself--lower and lower in
the big chair, his shoulders doubling, his knees falling apart, his
clasped hands hanging between his knees and all but touching his boots.
Thus he stayed for a little, bowed.
All this was so different from what Johnnie had expected that again he
suspected displeasure--toward Cis, toward himself; and as with a
sinking, miserable heart he watched his visitor, he wished from his soul
that he had kept the engagement to himself. "Y' ain't g-g-glad," he
stammered finally.
However, as Johnnie afterward remarked to Cis, when it came to judging
what the cowboy felt about this or that, a person never could tell. For,
"Glad?" repeated One-Eye, raising the bent head; "w'y, sonny, I'm
tickled t' death t' hear it!--jes' plumb tickled t' death!" (And how was
Johnnie to know that this was not strictly the truth?)
The next afternoon, while Father Pat was reading aloud the story of the
Sangreal, here entered One-Eye again, stern purpose in the very
upturning of that depleted mustache. "Figgered mebbe I could ask y' t'
do somethin' fer me," he told the priest. "It's concernin' that scout
proposition o' Johnnie's. Seems like he'll be needin' a uniform pretty
soon, won't he? Wondered if y'd mind pur-_chasin'_ it." Then down upon
the kitchen table he tossed a number of crisp, green bills.
Stunned at sight of so much money, paralyzed with emotion, and
tongue-tied, Johnnie could only stare. Afterward he remembered, with a
bothersome, worried feeling, that he had not thanked One-Eye before the
latter took his leave along with Father Pat. That night on the roof he
walked up and down while he whispered his gratitude to a One-Eye who was
a think. "Oh, it just stuck in my throat, kind of," he explained. "Oh,
I'm sorry I acted so funny!" (Why did the words of appreciation simply
flow from between his lips now? though he had not been able to whisper
one at the proper time!)
That night, wearing the uniform he had not yet seen, he took a long
pretend-walk; but not along any street of the East Side; not even up
Fifth Avenue. He chose a garden set thick with trees. There was a lake
in the garden; and wonderful birds flew about--parrots, they were, like
the ones owned by Crusoe. For a new suit of an ordinary kind, any
thoroughfare of the city might have done well enough. But the new
uniform demanded a special setting. And this place of enchantment was
Mr. Rockefeller's private park!
It seemed as if the night would never go! Next morning, it seemed as if
Big Tom would never go, nor the Father come. But at an early hour the
latter did appear, panting, in his arms a large pasteboard box. At sight
of that box, Johnnie felt almost faint. But when the string was cut, and
the cover taken off, disclosing a crisp, clean, khaki uniform, with
little, breathless cries, and excited exclamations, yes, and with wet
lashes, he caught the gift up in his arms and held it against him,
embracing it. It was his! His! Oh, the overwhelming joy of knowing it
was his!
Though there was, of course, a chance that another strike might happen,
and Big Tom come trudging home, nevertheless Johnnie could not resist
the temptation of donning the precious outfit, seeing himself in it, and
showing himself to the Father. But first he took a thorough hand-wash,
this to guard against soiling a new garment; to insure against surprise
while he was putting the clothes on, he scurried into Cis's room with
the armful, leaving Father Pat in the morris chair, from where the
latter called out advice now and again.
On went everything. Not without mistakes, however, and some fumbling, in
the poor light, over strange fastenings (all of Johnnie's fingers had
turned into thumbs). The Father had done his part particularly well, and
the suit fitted nicely. So did the leggings, so soon as Johnnie,
discovering that he had them on upside down, inverted them. The
buttoning and the belting, the lacing and the knotting, at an end, he
put on the hat. But was undecided as to whether or not he should wear it
at a slant of forty-five degrees, as One-Eye wore his, or straight, as
was Mr. Perkins's custom. Finally he chose the latter fashion, took a
long breath, like a swimmer coming up out of the depths, and--walked
forth in a pair of squeaking brown shoes.
How different from the usual Johnnie Smith he looked! He had lost that
curious chunky appearance which Barber's old clothes gave him, and which
was so misleading. On the other hand, his thin arms and pipelike legs
were concealed, respectively, by becoming cloth and canvas. As for his
body, it was slender, and lithe. And how straight he stood! And how
smart was his appearance! And how tall he seemed!
The priest threw up astonished hands. "Shure," he cried, "and is this
annybody I know?"
"Oh, it is! I am!" declared Johnnie, flushing under the brim of the
olive-drab hat. "It's me, Father Pat! Oh, my! Do I look fine? D' y' like
it?"
Grandpa did, for he was circling Johnnie, cackling with excitement. "Oh,
go fetch Mother!" he pleaded. "Go fetch Mother!--Oh, Mother, hurry up!
Come and see Johnnie!"
The Father walked in circles too, exclaiming and admiring. "It can't be
a certain little lad who lives in the Barber flat," he puzzled. "So who
can it be? No, I don't know this small soldier, and I'll thank ye if
ye'll introduce me!"
"Oh," answered Johnnie, "I ain't 'zac'ly sure I'm myself! Oh, Father
Pat, isn't it wonderful?--and I know I've got it 'cause I can take hold
of it, and _smell_ it! Oh, my goodness!" A feeling possessed him which
he had never had before--a feeling of pride in his personal appearance.
With it came a sense of self-respect. "And _I_ seem t' be new, and
clean, and fine," he added, "jus' like the clothes!"
"Ye're a wee gentleman!" asserted the Father; "--a soldier and a
gentleman!" And he saluted Johnnie.
Johnnie returned the salute--twice! Whereupon Grandpa fell to saluting,
and calling out commands in his quavering old voice, and trying to stand
upon his slippered feet.
In the midst of all the uproar, "Oh, One-Eye! One-Eye! One-Eye!" For
here, piling one happiness upon another, here was the cowboy, staggering
in under the weight of a huge, ice-cold watermelon.
"That's my name!" returned the Westerner, grinning. "But y' better take
the eggs outen my pockets 'fore ye grab me like that. Y' know eggs can
bust."
When the eggs were rescued, along with a whole pound of butter, Johnnie
saluted One-Eye. Next, he held out his hand. "Oh, I--I think you're
awful good," he declared (he had thought up this much of his speech the
night before on the roof).
One-Eye waved him away as if he were a fly, and said "Bosh!" a great
many times as Johnnie tried to continue. Finally, to change the subject,
the cowboy broke into that sad song about his mother, which stopped any
further attempt to thank him.
"I'll tell y' what," he declared when Johnnie's mind was at last
completely diverted from his polite intention; "they's jes' one thing
shy. Yeppie, one. What y' need now is a nice, fine, close hair cut."
"At a--at a barber's?" Johnnie asked, already guessing the answer.
"Come along!"
"Oh, One-Eye!" gasped Johnnie. (Oh, the glory of going out in the
uniform! and with the cowboy! And how would he ever be able to take the
new suit off!) "But if I wear it out, and _he_ sees me, and----"
One-Eye was at the door, ready to lead the way. (Father Pat would stay
behind with Grandpa.) The cowboy turned half about. "If Barber was t'
find out," he answered, "and so much as laid a little finger on that
suit, he'd have t' settle matters with _me_. Come!"
Like one in an enchanted dream, Johnnie followed on in his stiff, new
shoes. It was noon, and as they emerged from the dark hallway which led
into the main street to the north, the sidewalks were aswarm. Indeed,
the doorstep which gave from the hall to the pave was itself planted
thick with citizens of assorted sizes. To get out, One-Eye lifted his
spurred boots high over the heads of two small people. But Johnnie,
doffing the scout hat with practiced art, "'Scuse me, please," he
begged, in perfect imitation of Mr. Perkins; and in very awe fully six
of the seated, having given a backward glance, and spied that uniform,
rose precipitately to let him by.
"Johnnie Barber!" gasped some one. "What d' y' know!" demanded another.
From a third came a long, low whistle of amazement.
Johnnie's ears stung pleasantly. "Hear 'em?" he asked One-Eye. "Course
they mean me!"
"Ad-mi-ra-tion," pronounced the cowboy, who always took his big words
thus, a syllable at a time. "Sonny, y've knocked 'em all pie-eyed!"
The barber shop was not nearly so regal as that restaurant of fond and
glorious memory. Yet in its way it was splendid; and it was most
interesting, what with its lean-back chairs, man-high mirrors, huge
stacks of towels, lines of glittering bottles, and rows of shaving mugs
(this being a neighborhood shop). And how deliciously it smelled!
It was a little, dark gentleman in a gleaming white coat who waved
Johnnie into one of the chairs--from which, his eyes wide and eager, the
latter viewed himself as never before, from his bare head to his knees,
and scarcely knew himself!
One-Eye came to stand over the chair. "Now, don't y' give the boy one of
them dis-gustin', round, mush-bowl hair cuts!" he warned, addressing the
small, dark man. "Nope. He wants the reg'lar old-fashioned kind, with a
feather edge right down t' the neck."
When one travels about under the wing of a millionaire, all things
happen right. This was Johnnie's pleased conclusion as, with a snip,
snip, snip, the bright scissors did their quick work over his yellow
head. He had a large white cloth pinned about his shoulders (no doubt
the barber had noted the uniform, and was giving it fitting protection),
and upon that cloth fell the severed bits of hair, flecking it with
gold. In what One-Eye described afterward as "jig-time," the last snip
was made. Then Johnnie had his neck dusted with a soft brush, the white
cloth was removed, and he stood up, shorn and proud.
Outside, several boys were hanging against the window, peering in. As
Johnnie settled his hat he recalled something Father Pat had once said
about the desirability of putting one's self in another person's place.
Johnnie did that, and realized what a fortunate boy he was--with his
wonderful friend at his side, his uniform on his back, and "a dandy hair
cut." So as he went out in One-Eye's wake, "Hullo!" he called to the
boys in the most cordial way.
"And I reckon we look some punkins?" the cowboy observed when they were
back in the flat once more.
"Shure," replied Father Pat, "and what's more civilizin' than a barber
shop!"
And now the question was, how could Cis view Johnnie in all his military
magnificence without putting that new uniform in danger? One-Eye had
the answer: he would be down in the area when Big Tom arrived from work,
"And off we'll go for see-gars," he plotted, "so the field'll be clear."
However, as he waited for Cis, Johnnie could not bring himself to take
too many chances with One-Eye's superb gift, and hid it, though he felt
hot enough, beneath Barber's big clothes (and how fortunate it was that
the longshoreman's cast-offs were voluminous enough to go over
everything). Thus doubly clad, he looked exceedingly plump and padded.
That was not the worst of it. The sleeves of the new coat showed. But
all he had to do was draw up over them that pair of Cis's stockings
which had kept his thin arms warm during the past winter. Of course his
leggings and the shoes also showed, so he took these off. Then
perspiring, but happy, he watched his two friends go, giving them a
farewell salute.
Cis came in promptly. "Oh, all day I've hardly been able to wait!" she
declared. Then with upraised hands, "Oh, Johnnie, how _beautiful_ you
are! Oh, you're like a picture! Like a picture I once saw of a boy who
sang in a church! Oh, Johnnie, you're the best-looking scout in all New
York! Yes, you are! And I'm going to kiss you!"
He let her, salving his slight annoyance thereat with the thought that
no one could see. "But don't say anythin' t' the Father 'r One-Eye about
me bein' beautiful," he pleaded. "Will y'? Huh?"
She promised she would not. "Oh, Johnnie," she cried again, having taken
a second view of him from still another angle, and in another light,
"that khaki's almost the color of your hair!"--which partly took the joy
out of things!
Yet, under the circumstances, no pang of any sort could endure very
long. Particularly as--following the proper signal--Johnnie went to Mrs.
Kukor's, Cis at his brown heels. Arrived, he saluted an astonished lady
who did not at first recognize him; then he took off the new hat to her.
She was quite stunned (naturally), and could only sink into a rocker,
hands waving, round head wagging. But next, a very torrent of
exclamations, all in Yiddish. After that, "Soch stylish!" she gasped
rapturously. "Pos-i-tivvle!"
Back in the flat again, Johnnie took off the uniform. That called for
will power; but he dared not longer risk his prized possession. Late
that night, when Big Tom had eaten to repletion of the watermelon, and
smoked himself to sleep on one of One-Eye's cigars, Johnnie reached in
around the jamb of Cis's door and cautiously drew that big suit box to
him. In the morning it would have to join the books upstairs. However,
for a happy, dark hour or two he could enjoy the outfit. How crisp and
clean and strong it felt! Blushing at his own foolishness, he lifted the
cowboy's gift to his lips and kissed it.