to the company to submit the troubles to arbitration, and to this both
the company and the strikers agreed. The result was that although all
that the men asked was not granted, yet their hours were shortened,
and an increase of pay promised at the beginning of the year.
XVI. CALLED TO GO UP HIGHER
As for Theodore--when the bishop's carriage had driven away he went
home in a state of joyous expectation. He thought how he would go, on
the morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two would
have together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so often
longed to tell him. He knew well how interested the bishop would be in
all that he--Theodore--was trying to do for the Great Captain, and he
longed to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and so
experienced.
On his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs and
a neat necktie.
"'Cause I want to look as well's I can when he sees me," he said to
himself.
All that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the next
day. He realty _could_ not wait any longer, but he found it hard
to decide what would be the best hour for him to go. He knew that the
bishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almost
sure to have guests with him. In the afternoon, too, he seldom had a
leisure moment. Indeed he never had any leisure moments, but Theodore
decided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelve
and one o'clock.
All night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the house
and once he awoke in great distress, imagining that Brown had sternly
refused him admittance.
He could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else to
share his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in the
two houses, he carried some little gift. It was his thank-offering,
though he did not know it. Small gifts they were, all--a flower to
one, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extra
loaf to a hard-working mother--little things all, but given in the
name of the Great Captain though His Name was not once mentioned.
So, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went once
more through the streets toward the bishop's house.
Theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyes
was honest and true. He was able now to possess two suits and he wore
his best one with the clean linen and the new tie. Many a mother might
have been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son.
The remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over Theodore as he rang
the bell at the bishop's door, but Brown did not refuse him
admittance. On the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the door
as he said, in a low tone, "Come to Mrs. Martin's room," and once
again Theodore followed him across the wide hall.
Mrs. Martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell upon
the boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when she
said,
"He talked about you last evening, Theodore, and told us what you did
for him. You've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heart
sank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixed
entreatingly on the housekeeper's face. His throat felt dry and stiff,
and he dared not trust himself to speak. Mrs. Martin too, sat down and
wiped her eyes as she went on,
"He ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikers
yesterday. He wasn't well enough, and I told the gentlemen so when
they came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said he
would go. He came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in the
night."
Theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his trembling
lips. The housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered as
if he had spoken.
"It's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live."
At these words, Theodore's head went down on the table and he sat as
if stunned. His trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. Eight
months before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width of
the continent separated him from his friend. Now, what a joy it would
have been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well in
California.
At last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice,
"How long?"
Mrs. Martin understood. She answered, sadly, "A few days--possibly
only a few hours. He lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. I
think," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "I
think you can see him for a moment if you would like to."
Theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "Come then," and led the
way to an upper room.
The boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imagined
that a boy could have.
The sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. Theodore
stood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and so
changed even in the few hours since last he saw it. He longed to press
his lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, but
he did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room in
silence.
Mrs. Martin followed him down the stairs. At the door he stopped and
looked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away without
a word. He knew that never again should he see his friend alive, and
he did not. Before the next night, the bishop had been called to go up
higher.
When the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was a
request that no flowers be sent. Theodore did not notice this item,
and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of the
roses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and Mrs. Martin herself
placed them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laid
upon Theodore's head. All the gold of the earth, had it been offered
to the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of that
last look and touch.
On the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held was
crowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast as
that to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but what
a difference was there in look and manner between the two great
gatherings! Here, every face was softened, every heart tender with
grief. They called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lost
one who loved them--one who was indeed their friend.
But not one, whether within or without the church, not one grieved
more deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than did
the lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of the
great organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-draped
coffin was borne out to its burial. The boy stood there until the last
of the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forward
and, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery.
When all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if there
was a great blank in his life--a blank that could never be filled;
that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that evening
Mr. Scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's sore
heart. His teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be
"the bishop's shadow." To Theodore, his small ministries to the
forlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing when
he recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the days
went on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life.
Mr. Scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became more
unselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who needed
his help. It was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed to
help seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was Carrots.
Four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike had
been arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary.
Of this number were Tom Steel, and Carrots, whose red banner had more
than once caught the eye of the police.
Jimmy Hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that Carrots had got his deserts
at last, but Theodore was troubled and disheartened over the
matter. He went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff and
surly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes of
Carrots followed him wistfully. He did not go again to the prison but,
though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys of
fourteen, yet, during those two years of Carrots' imprisonment, never
a month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter from
Theodore. He never replied to any of these letters, but as Theodore
expected no replies, that made no difference.
XVII. FINAL GLIMPSES
As the evenings lengthened, the club grew in favour among the boys of
the neighbourhood, and often Mr. Scott wondered to see how Theodore
succeeded in maintaining good order and in keeping up the interest of
the boys, without setting them against him. He was full of ingenious
ideas for interesting them in something helpful, and, as he expressed
it, "lifting 'em up a peg." He grew to be exceedingly popular in the
neighbourhood that winter, but he never discovered the fact. He was
too busy thinking of and for others, to think much about himself.
After a while he gave up all interest in his stand to Jimmy Hunt and
devoted himself wholly to his brass-polishing business. It outgrew his
own time and strength before the New Year, and then he hired boys to
work for him, and he spent his time superintending their work and
extending his list of employers. He paid the boys as liberally as he
could, but he would tolerate no loafing or careless work, so that at
first he had some trouble in getting satisfactory assistants, but once
secured, they seldom left his employ. The time came when he had a
long list of such employees, and when a large part of the brass work
in the city was under his care--but this was later.
Nan and Little Brother did not come back to the city in the
fall. Mr. Scott had never intended that they should if he could
prevent it.
Long before the summer was over, Nan had taken a daughter's place in
Mrs. Hyde's childless home and Little Brother had become the cherished
pet of the household. So warm and deep was the love given to them both
that even Nan's sensitive pride could not object to remaining there
where she knew that she could give as much as she received in love and
service, and with a glad and grateful heart she abandoned all thought
of returning to the city, and knew that she had at last found a real
home.
But she did not forget her older friend, Theodore, and she told her
new friends so much about him that they desired to see and know him
also. So it came about that one of her letters to him contained a
cordial invitation from Mrs. Hyde for him to spend Thanksgiving week
at her home.
Mr. Scott gladly agreed to attend to the club-room and to keep an eye
on the polishing business as far as he could, so Theodore accepted the
invitation and began to look forward with delight to seeing Little
Brother and Nan again.
He could hardly realise that it was he himself--poor Theodore
Bryan--who, one bright November morning, sat in the swift-flying car
and looked out on the autumn landscape on his way to spend
Thanksgiving as Mrs. Hyde's guest, and to see again the two whom he
loved to call his "folks."
[Illustration: Thanksgiving reunion.]
As the train drew near the station at which he was to stop, Theo
wondered who would meet him. He hoped Nan would. Indeed, he felt sure
that she would, for, of course, Mrs. Hyde would not know him any more
than he would know her.
So, as the cars ran along by the platform, he gazed eagerly out of the
car window, and he felt a little chill of disappointment because Nan
was nowhere in sight. There was a comfortable carriage in waiting for
somebody. He thought that it might be Mrs. Hyde's--but no, that could
not be, either, for a big, rosy-cheeked laddie, with mischievous blue
eyes, sat on the seat, flourishing a whip in true boyish fashion. That
didn't look much like heavy-eyed, white-lipped Little Brother, and
there was not a girl anywhere in sight, except a tall, handsome one in
a beautiful grey suit, trimmed with fur. This girl stood near the
carriage and seemed to be watching for some one.
"I do wish Nan had come to meet me," Theo thought, as he stepped off
the train, and then the tall girl in the grey suit was looking eagerly
into his face, with both hands outstretched, crying,
"Oh, Theo! How glad I am to see you!" and he was seated in the
carriage with that rosy-cheeked, merry-faced little laddie, between
him and Nan, before he fairly realised that this was Little Brother,
grown well and strong, as even Nan had not dared hope he would do in
so few months.
And he had not forgotten his old friend either--Little Brother had
not,--or, if he had, he renewed the friendship very speedily, and
during Theo's stay the two were as inseparable as of old.
It was a happy week for Nan, for she could see how Theodore had been
growing in the best ways during the months of their separation, and
she was not a bit disappointed in him, but proud to have her new
friends know him. And, as for the boy, it was a glimpse into a new
life for him--that week in a lovely Christian home. He made up his
mind that, sometime, he would have just such a home of his own, and he
went back to the city well content to leave these two in such tender
hands and amid such delightful surroundings.
Through all the winter that followed, Theodore was busy and
happy. When the night-school began, he coaxed Mr. Hunt to take charge
of the clubroom, for Theodore wanted to learn and fit himself for
better work by and by, and with such a purpose he made rapid progress
in his studies.
But, busy as he was, he still found time for his Saturday evening work
for the florist, that he might continue his Sunday flower mission, for
he knew that those few blossoms were all of brightness and beauty that
ever entered into some of those shut-in, poverty-pinched lives about
him.
Then, at Christmas time, Mr. Scott and Mrs. Rawson and the King's
Daughters Circle helped him prepare a Christmas tree in the clubroom;
a tree that bore a gift for every child and woman in the two
houses. The children almost went wild over that, the first Christmas
tree that many of them had ever seen; and then the eleven girls in
their pretty winter dresses served all the company with cake and
cream.
Theodore was too happy and busy to eat his share, but that was all
right, for Teddy Hunt had no trouble at all in disposing of two
portions.
When the last candle had ceased to glimmer among the green branches,
and the last bit of cake and spoonful of cream had disappeared, the
company slowly and lingeringly departed, already looking forward to
just such another Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days
later. Then with many a "Merry Christmas" to Theodore, the girls and
Mrs. Rawson took their departure, and Mr. Scott followed them, only
stopping a moment, to say,
"We left your Christmas gift in your room, my boy. I hope you will
like it."
Wondering what his gift might be, the boy put out the lights and
locked the clubroom door and hurried down to his room, remembering
then that his teacher had asked for his key earlier in the evening.
The key was in the door now, and there was a light in the
room. Theodore pushed open the door and then stopped short with a cry
of delighted surprise, for he never would have recognised this as the
bare little room he had left.
A neat rug covered the floor, fresh shades hung at the windows; a
white iron bedstead with fluffy mattress and fresh white bedding stood
where the old bedstead had been, and in place of the pine table and
chairs were a neat oak bureau, and a washstand with toilet set and
towels, three good, comfortable chairs and a desk that made Theo's
eyes shine with delight. But best of all was a picture that hung on
the wall facing the door--a picture of the bishop with that tender
look in the eyes that the boy remembered so well.
On a card, slipped in the corner of the frame, was written,
"From Nan and Little Brother," and Theodore, as he looked and looked,
felt that there was nothing left for him to desire.
He was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at the
picture, when there was a knock at the door and as he opened it in
flocked the eleven girls with Mrs. Rawson and Mr. Scott behind them.
"Do you like it, Theodore?"
"We _couldn't_ go home till we saw you here," they exclaimed, and
laughed and chattered joyously when they saw that the boy was too
pleased and delighted for any words, and then they went away with
their own hearts full of the joy of giving, to write a circular letter
to Nan telling her all about it.
After this the winter passed quietly to Theodore. He was well and
strong, and he was busy day and evening, and he was as happy a boy as
could be found in all that city.
And the weeks and months slipped away until two years had gone by, and
it was time for Carrots to be released.
Theodore ascertained the day and hour when he would leave the
penitentiary and met him at the very gate with a warm and friendly
greeting, and took him at once to his own room.
He searched the pale face of the boy, wondering whether there really
was in it a change for the better, or not. It seemed to him less
sullen and more thoughtful than it had been two years before, but he
was not sure. Certainly, Carrots was very quiet. It seemed almost as
if he had forgotten how to talk. He looked about Theo's neat,
comfortable room, evidently noting the changes there, but he made no
comment.
Theodore had set out a table with a good supper for the two, and
Carrots ate as if he enjoyed the food. When the meal was ended, he
leaned back in his chair, and as he looked straight into Theodore's
eyes, said slowly,
"What made ye do it, Tode?"
"Do what--bring you here to supper?"
"Yes, an' write all them letters to me, an'--an' everything?"
"Why, Carrots, it's this way. I served another fellow an' awful mean
trick once, and I've been trying mighty hard to find him, and make it
up to him, but I haven't found him yet, and so I've tried to do a
little for you instead of him--don't you see?"
Carrots nodded, and Theo fancied that he looked a little disappointed.
"Then 'twasn't really me you wanted to help?" he said, gravely.
"Yes, 'twas, too," answered Theo, quickly. "I'd have done what I
could for you, anyhow, Carrots, but I do _wish_ I could find
him," he added, sorrowfully.
"What's his name?" inquired Carrots.
"Jack Finney."
"What?" exclaimed the boy, staring at Theodore as if he could not
believe his ears.
"Jack Finney," repeated Theo, wonderingly.
"Well, I never! Tode--_I'm_ Jack Finney."
"You?" cried Theodore, starting up excitedly. "You Mrs. Russell's
Jack Finney?"
The boy nodded again. "I guess so. I was in her class in the mission
school."
Theo's face was all alight as he exclaimed, "Oh, Carrots--no, Jack,
I'll never call you Carrots again--Jack, I'm too glad for anything!
And now look here, Jack Finney, you've _got_ to be the right kind
of a chap from this on. I won't let you go wrong. I _can't_ let
you go wrong, Jack. It--it seems as if it'll be all my fault if you
do."
And Jack, looking again straight into Theodore's eyes, answered
slowly, "I guess I've had 'bout enough o' crooked doin's. If you'll
stand by me, I'll make a try on the other line, anyhow."
"I'll stand by you every time, Jack," cried Theodore, earnestly.
And he did, through months of alternate hope and discouragement, for
Jack did not find the upward road an easy one. There were the bad
habits of years always pulling him down, and there were old companions
in evil ever ready to coax him back to their company, and more than
once they succeeded for a while; but Theodore would not give him up,
and in the end, the boy had his reward, for Jack Finney became his
fellow-soldier under the Great Captain, and his faithful helper in his
loving ministry among Christ's little ones.