Mrs. Schmitz was waiting in a deserted corner of the porch far from the
noisy company around the punch bowl; and when Sydney came forward with
Ida, she stepped toward them, reaching both hands to the wondering girl,
and asking in a tremulous voice,
“Girl! Girl! Where learned you that song?”
“I think my mother must have taught it to me when I was very little; I
can’t remember when I did not sing it.”
“Your mutter--do you remember her?”
Ida looked around startled, and again at Mrs. Schmitz. “Oh, sometimes
I think I can; a tall, lovely woman, not large like you. Then it
fades,--that picture, and I see nothing but darkness and--” She shivered.
“Ant water?” Mrs. Schmitz volunteered excitedly.
“Yes. How--do you know?”
“How do I know? Because you are mine leetle Ida! Because mine father
write that song for you, and taught it to you. And it never was printed,
ant no one sings it but mine leetle Ida!” She smoothed back the girl’s
hair, and studied her face anxiously.
“That’s true. No one sings it but me.”
“Ant I was that tall woman; in America I grow fat.”
“Ida! Ida,” the girl mused, giving the name its German sound. “They used
to call me so; I can dimly remember.”
With one sweep of her loving arms Mrs. Schmitz took the girl to her
heart, so long hungry for her child. Ida, who had drifted from the orphan
asylum to one home after another, had found at last the mother for whom
she had so long prayed.
It was the daughter who first noticed that others had approached. The
discovery of her mother had changed her whole future. In a moment, almost
in a breath, the shadowy hand of family relationship had reached across
the sea, bringing dim memories of her native land and speech; had given
her a family where before she had been a lonely waif. Yet, for this is
the way of youth, the present moment seemed the all important one to her.
“_Mutterchen_,” she whispered, and knew not that she said “mother dear,”
in German; “they are looking at us.”
The mother, older and wiser, looked both ways on life, to the past and
to the future. Not only had her heart massed the longing and sadness of
dreary years and flung it to the winds in this instant of glad discovery;
she was also planning for the future. No wonder she had no eyes for
people, time, or place; for anything but this miracle of happiness; her
child was found!
But once recalled, her innate courtesy prompted the kind course. With a
long embrace that held the pent tenderness of years, she released Ida,
and they went quietly in. After the other guests had gone Mrs. Schmitz
told her story to the rejoicing Wrights, Max, and Billy and his mother.
She wished to take Ida home with her that very night, but was surprised
with opposition.
“I think I should stay where I am till the end of the semester. That is
only a week or so; and it will inconvenience Mrs. Patton for me to go
away now.”
“But what will she do in summer time? Seedney tells me summer times you
work for money to buy your clothes.”
“Yes, but that is all planned for. When school closes they are going to
the country; they have made their arrangements.”
“So? Well, then I’ll hire a good servant to take your place.”
Ida hesitated. It was a great temptation; yet her duty was clear, as her
mother could see by her decision. “A stranger would be a lot of bother
for such a short time. The little children would be afraid of her, and
the big ones wouldn’t mind her, and Mrs. Patton couldn’t leave the baby
with her, and--Oh, don’t you see? I want to be with you, but I must stay
where I am till vacation begins.”
For an instant no one spoke. Mrs. Schmitz did not conceal her
disappointment, yet she did a strange thing. She rose from her chair
and drew Ida up beside her, gazing into her eyes, smoothing back her
hair, noting every feature of her small, expressive face. She saw the
loveliness there and her mother’s pride rejoiced in it; but she was
looking deeper, was singing in her heart a song of joy.
“Mine child, for those words I love you more. Already you are like your
father ant grandfather. Also like mine goot mutter, so much to think of
others. You stay, yes; but I shall hire the Japanese boy to do much work
for you, scrub, clean, ant do things mit the dishrag.”
She joked a little to keep back the tears, and saw Ida go away with
Sydney, while she started home with Max.
Both were silent till they had left the car and were walking toward the
nursery, when Max said, with a cadence of regret in his voice, “I’ll
never find another home like yours in the City of Green Hills.”
She whirled, blocking his way. “You are not going. You ant Seedney are
still mine boys.”
“We’ll be in the way.”
“Never! You are mine mascot. Seedney iss mine strong right hand. I got
plenty rooms. Don’t you see?” Under the arc light he saw her face beaming
with the joy of planning. “That’s what for I save mine best room mit the
porch; that iss now Ida’s. Ant we will have a quartette, four parts.”
Inside the house they discussed that matter and many others, excitedly.
In imagination they refurnished the house, disputing whether pink or
blue would be nicest for Ida. Max and his new sister went through the
university, Max deciding his profession; and they were hotly debating
the question whether Ida’s voice could be developed into a high dramatic
soprano, or would only be a mezzo soprano, when Sydney came, Sydney, the
practical.
“It’s half past two,” he warned. “Max, if you don’t behave, Ida will
lose her mother as soon as she’s found her. You gink! can’t you see our
mother-on-the-side is worn to a frazzle?”
Mrs. Schmitz laughed and started toward the hall. “Goot Seedney!” she
called back. “Ida finds already two fine brothers; one, Max, to make her
fly mit the clouds; ant Seedney, to hold her to the earth, from which all
our life must come. She iss a lucky girl.”
“The nursery is all right for the night,” embarrassed Sydney said by way
of changing the subject. “The temperature has dropped; I turned on the
heat for the orchids.”
She patted his arm. “Goot boy! Goot night, two goot boys,” she said
cheerily in another tone, and left them.
At school the silent prejudice against Max had shown itself in looks, in
subtle ways impossible to define, and in the fact that he was omitted
from some of the class affairs. Yet as the weeks passed he could feel it
decline.
Billy was the best of friends. He told Max that all the “good ones of
the bunch” liked him from the day he went back to school and marched
boldly up to Walter in the presence of his special friends and said, “Mr.
Buckman, when one does wrong the only way he can atone is to make good
for it if possible, and live it down. I paid for the food I took, as you
know; and I intend to stay in Fifth Avenue High till I graduate. Some day
I may get even with you.”
The words were not a menace. Max’s face and tone were kind, greatly
puzzling Walter. When he least expected it and in the most astonishing
way Walter was to acknowledge that Max was more than even.
It was perhaps two weeks after the musicale that Max and Sydney were at
Billy’s, planning and rehearsing some of the details of Billy’s play. It
was well on the way toward presentation. He had worked hard, beginning in
early autumn, and revising again and again, till at last he had won high
commendation from his teacher of English, who had spurred him to write it.
A committee from each high school in the city would hear it, and on their
joint decision rested the award of the prize. If Billy won it would be
for the honor of his school as well as for himself.
Late in the afternoon Billy’s small cousin, Madge Price--little Miss
Snow, her brother Hec called her because of her white hair--ran in,
gesticulating wildly, scarcely able to speak coherently.
“Quick! Come! It’s Dottie Buckman! She’s all swallowed up! She’ll be dead
in a minute!”
Before she had finished, Billy swung her to his arm and ran out with her,
questioning as he went. Max and Sydney followed. Around the corner they
hurried to where the city, in the process of street grading, had made a
huge cut.
Instantly they knew. All the children in the neighborhood played there at
“making caves.” Many little hands had worked far into the sand bank, easy
to dig yet damp and hard packed enough to stay in place. But at last the
root-netted crust above became too thin to support its weight, and had
fallen, imprisoning the little child in its fatal clutch.
“Oh, oh! She’ll be all dead!” Madge cried piteously as Billy put her down.
Heedless of her, the boys frantically tore at the earth with their
hands. Billy grasped the situation, as Max could see, while he snatched
at the earth with inadequate fingers.
“Run, Madge! Tell mother, everybody! Tell them to bring shovels!” Billy
commanded, and sent out ringing calls for help in every direction.
There were no men near at that hour, and only women came running with
every sort of an implement from a shovel to kitchen spoons; but they
worked as frantically as the boys.
“Some one get a basin of water,” Max commanded.
“Who’s going to stop to drink water?” Billy asked sarcastically.
No one halted to answer, least of all Max. He had a fierce sort of
strength that outmatched sturdy Sydney and even big, strong Billy. He
drove his shovel deeper, piled it higher, and plied it faster than any
one else. The perspiration poured from him, yet he shivered with dread of
what they should presently see.
“Out of my way!” he cried to a hysterical woman who ran in front of him,
and did no work herself. “Take her away, Billy!” he demanded in a voice
that would be obeyed, the long, rapid sweep of his arms never halting,
never slacking, indeed, moving more swiftly with each dip of the shovel.
He did not see or know that the woman slipped back at his first fierce
word.
It seemed hours, in reality it was less than minutes, when a fragment of
a little skirt was uncovered.
“Here she is!” Max shouted wildly; and the boys worked with more fury,
till presently three pairs of hands drew the limp little figure to the
light, apparently dead.
[Illustration: “Here she is!” Max shouted wildly]
A motor car was standing alone in front of a house near by. While they
were working, Max had noticed it and planned for it.
“One of you run and crank up that machine. Quick!” he ordered.
“I will! I know it; it belongs to one of the neighbors.” Billy was off,
shouting back as he ran.
Now they knew what the water was for. Max plunged his handkerchief into
it, opened the little sand-filled mouth and wiped it clear; the nostrils
the same. Far out he pulled the small tongue. “Hold it so,” he directed
Sydney, while he continued with the cleansing water.
The machine rolled up, and before it could stop, or hardly halt its
speed, Max with the child in his arms sprang in, Sydney behind him
carrying the basin.
“The nearest doctor,” Max called, but unnecessarily, for Billy
understood, knew well which doctor lived nearest, and was already on the
way.
Down the street they flew, heedless of the shouts of the irate owner
of the car, while Max and Sydney worked hard to restore breath to the
smothered child.
Again and again Max dipped the useful handkerchief into the basin,
wiping off the little face. Gently he pressed down her chest and released
the pressure in even movements.
“Why don’t you drive, Billy?” he called desperately.
Billy was driving as he never had before, using every ounce of power he
could make. He too felt the wheels creep, and pumped the gasoline more
recklessly, while he went hot and cold at the thought of being too late.
It was a beautiful afternoon and the streets were full of women and
children, sauntering or playing in the freedom and security of the quiet
residence district. In and out among them, honking and shouting, Billy
wove his perilous course, praying fervently if not consciously that he
might not kill one child while trying to save another.
It was not till an officer swooped down upon him from a cross street that
he knew how fast he was going. In long leaps the galloping horse made
losing speed beside the machine, the officer shouting raucously at Billy
to stop, and waving his club with menace.
“It’s life and death!” shouted Billy, driving on still faster.
In a second more he was at the physician’s door; but not before the
anxious boys in the tonneau imagined they had seen a tiny flutter of the
little eyelids; thought they felt a faint lift of the bosom. Yet they
dared not hope; the motion of the car was deceiving.
They were fortunate to find the doctor in, one of the few to keep an
office in the residence district. From Max’s trembling arms he took the
little one and laid her on the operating table, questioning while he
began a skillful examination, the boys watching silently, fearing yet
longing to hear his verdict.
He took no time for words save a few commands when, needing assistance,
he forced something between her lips, drop by drop.
In a moment they saw a movement of her lips. Presently they could see
her breath coming, and at last her eyes opened--opened slowly and closed
again, showing no intelligence; and Max looked anxiously into the
doctor’s noncommittal face, trying to read it.
How the moments dragged for the watching boys! The doctor’s face grew
sterner with each second, and Max began to lose courage, keeping his eyes
from the other boys, when a soft moan broke the silence, and following
that, incoherent sounds from the stiff, sand-roughened lips of the child.
The doctor straightened. His face relaxed in a smile. To the boys it
seemed as if he had been suddenly released from some dreadful ordeal.
Sternness melted in tenderness, and his hand had the gentleness of a
mother’s as he smoothed back the matted hair and spoke cheering words.
“Hi there, baby! It’s all right now, little one.”
Slowly the child’s gaze wandered from one to another, half frightened,
only half aroused.
Billy thrust his head within her view. “Want to go home, Taddie?”
That was Walter’s pet name for her and it further aroused her. She knew
Billy and feebly reached out her arms to him.
“Yes, we’ll take her home,” the doctor said. “The sight of her mother
will be best medicine now.” With that they stepped into the car and drove
to Mr. Buckman’s house, arriving to find it in great commotion.
Mrs. Wright and Billy’s mother had been out when the accident occurred;
but the story of Madge, who had been playing with Dottie, added to the
conflicting reports of the neighbors, had terribly frightened Mrs.
Buckman. She had telephoned the police department, called her husband,
and had their own physician waiting when the boys brought her darling
safely to her arms.
The doctors joined in a further examination, while in an adjoining room,
by Mr. Buckman’s order, the three boys waited the result. They were still
under great tension, and restless while the tall clock ticked off the
interminable minutes, one by one.
But at last the door opened to admit the men; and the boys heard a soft
sobbing, and the mother’s voice speaking a torrent of endearing words
over her rescued child.
“Tell them--thank--Oh, James, you know what to say,” she called after her
husband in a voice tremulous with tears of joy.
Before he could speak, Walter ran in, disheveled, haggard, and closing
the door, stood behind his father.
“Tell me, young man,” the second doctor asked Max, “how it happened you
knew enough to treat that child as you did? But for that nothing could
have saved her. As it was, it was a mighty close shave.”
“My father’s a doctor, and I have sometimes been with him on emergency
cases, and seen him work. Besides he told me a few things.” Max spoke
modestly in a voice weak from excitement and hard work.
“He did more than that,” Billy put in quickly. “He worked at the digging
faster than any of us; he had twice the power of Mumps and me, though we
tried as hard as we could, and he thought of everything, and--”
“We all did as much as we could,” Max interrupted; “if either one had
done less it wouldn’t have been enough.”
“That’s true. Yet your knowledge of what to do after she was uncovered
saved the child. Mr. Buckman, thank him for your little girl’s life.”
Max hung back and was about to speak again when Walter pushed forward and
caught Max by both hands. “I--I am the one who owes you everything, Max
Ball!”
“It’s nothing,” Max objected, too upset to realize what he was saying;
“I--I guess I’m even with you.”
Mr. Buckman stared at them wonderingly, and the two doctors waited a
minute in embarrassed silence, realizing that here was a matter quite
out of their province. With the promise of another visit later in the
evening, they departed, leaving Mr. Buckman gazing questioningly at his
agitated son.
“Oh, you don’t know what reason you have to be ashamed of me, father,”
Walter burst out; “I’ll never be able to look you in the face again.”
He told his story, how he had listened behind the portieres when Max made
his confession, how jealous he had been of Max’s popularity at school,
and the way he had revenged himself.
“What? You that plucky chap that came here last winter?” Ignoring Walter,
Mr. Buckman strode forward and grasped Max by the hand. “I wondered what
had become of you. Now you cross my threshold again to bring my little
daughter who, but for you, would be dead.” He turned away. Stern and
proud, he could not trust his voice.
For a moment there was absolute silence. Mr. Buckman still held Max by
the hand, while the rest waited for him to speak again, Walter with his
back to the others, his shoulders drooping, the figure of abject shame.
“I want to see you in my office--soon; to-morrow. I want to talk with
you. A chap who can do the plucky things--”
“It wasn’t any more than they did,” Max began, determined that Billy and
Sydney should be recognized.
“Yes, yes, I know all of you saved my little girl; but only one sick,
neglected boy came alone to face me and make restitution for a fault.
That’s what I’m remembering now. I wish to God I had a son like that!” He
wheeled and walked rapidly out of the room.
“Oh, father! father!” It was a desperate cry. Walter ran toward the door
but it closed in his face. He threw himself against it and, heedless of
listeners, sobbed like a heart-broken child.
For an embarrassed instant the other three stood stock-still and looked
at the floor. They did not know what to do. Mentally numb from the strain
they had undergone, this added distress bewildered them.
It was Billy who first roused to the proper thing. “Beat it, kids!”
he whispered hoarsely; and they scrambled out, leaving Walter quite
unconscious of their departure.