THE UNSEEN TRIUMPH
A new boy in a town makes an impression, good or bad, very quickly. If
he is obtrusive he forces his way into boy circles at once, and is
accepted more or less on his own terms provided he makes good.
The rough and ready way is perhaps the best way for a boy to get into
the midst of things in a new town or a new neighborhood. Modesty and
diffidence, so highly esteemed in some quarters, are apt to prove a
handicap to a boy. For these good qualities counterfeit so many other
qualities which are not good at all.
No doubt the shortest path of glory for a new boy is to lick the leader
of the group in the strange neighborhood. Next to this heroic shortcut,
boastful reminiscences of the town from which he came, and original
forms of mischief imported from it, do very well—at the start.
But Wilfred Cowell was not the sort of boy to seek admittance into
Bridgeboro’s coterie by any such means. He was diffident and sensitive.
He began, as a shy boy will, to make acquaintance among the younger
children, and for the first week or so was to be seen pulling the little
Wentworth girl about in her wagon, or visiting “Bennett’s Fresh
Confectionery” with Roland Ellman who lived next door. He walked home
from school with the diminutive Willie Bradley and one day accompanied
the little fellow to his back yard to inspect Willie’s turtle.
Following the path of least resistance and utterly unable to “butt in,”
he made acquaintance where acquaintance was easiest to make. Thus, all
unknown to him, the boys came to think of him as a “sissy.” Of course,
they were not going to go after him and he did not know how to “get in”
with them; at least he did not know any shortcut method. If he had
stridden down to the ball field and said, “Give us a chance here, will
you?” they would have given him a chance and then all would have been
easy sailing. But he just did not know how to do that.
So he pulled the little Wentworth girl in her brother’s wagon, and he
was doing that before returning to school on this memorable day of his
collapse.
It must be admitted that he looked rather large to play the willing
horse for so diminutive a driver. He was husky-looking enough and
slender and rather tall for his age. There was no reminder of recent
illness in his appearance. He had a fine color and brown eyes with the
same spirited expression as those of his sister. He came of a
good-looking family. Rosleigh, the little brother who had suffered a
fate worse than death before Wilfred was born, was recalled by old
friends of the saddened and reduced little family, as a child of rare
beauty.
One feature only Wilfred had which was available to boy ridicule. His
hair was wavy and a rebellious lock was continually falling over his
forehead which he was forever pushing up again with his hand. There was
certainly nothing sissified (as they say) in this. But in that fateful
noon hour the groups of boys passing through the block paused to watch
the new boy and soon caught on to this habit of his. Loitering, they
began mimicking him and seemed to find satisfaction in ruffling their
own hair in celebration of his unconscious habit.
It was certainly an inglorious and menial task to which Wilfred had
consecrated the half hour or so at his disposal. The little Wentworth
girl was a true autocrat. She threw the ball and he conveyed her to the
stopping point.
How Lorrie Madden happened to get the ball no one noticed; he was always
well ahead of his colleagues in mischief and teasing ridicule. Having
secured it he put it in his pocket. He had not the slightest idea that
Wilfred Cowell would approach him and demand it. No one ever demanded
anything of Lorrie Madden; it was his habit to keep other boys’ property
(and especially that of small children) until it suited his pleasure to
return it. He did this, not in dishonesty, but for exhibit purposes.
Knowing his power and disposition to carry these unworthy whims to the
last extreme of his victim’s exasperation, the boys upon the curb were
seized with mirth at beholding Wilfred Cowell sauntering toward Madden
as if all he had to do was to ask for the ball in order to get it. Such
girlish innocence! They did not hear what was said, they only saw what
happened.
“Let’s have that ball—quick,” said Wilfred easily.
“Quick? How do you get that way,” sneered Madden, producing the ball and
bouncing it on the ground.
“Give it to me,” said Wilfred easily, “or I’ll knock you flat. Now don’t
stand there talking.”
These were strange words to be addressed to Lorrie Madden—by a new boy
with wavy hair. Lorrie Madden who had pulled Pee-wee Harris’ radio
aerial down, “just for the fun of it.” Lorrie Madden who returned caps
and desisted from disordering other boys’ neckties only in the moment
dictated by his own sweet will. Yet it was not exactly the words he
heard that gave him pause. Two brown eyes, wonderful with a strange
light, were looking straight at him. One of these eyes, the right one,
was contracted a little, conveying a suggestion of cold determination.
No one saw this but Lorrie.
Then it was that Lorrie Madden did two things—immediately. One of these
was on account of Wilfred Cowell. The other was on account of his
audience on the opposite curb. To do him justice he thought and acted
quickly, and with well-considered art. He threw the ball away
nonchalantly, at the same time raising his arm in a disdainful threat.
And Wilfred, being the kind of a boy he was, turned quietly and went
after the ball. In this pursuit he presented a much less heroic figure
than did the menacing warrior who had sent him scampering. He looked as
if he were running away from a blow instead of after a ball.
It was in that moment of his unseen triumph that the clamorous group
across the way hit upon the dubious nickname by which Wilfred Cowell
came to be known at Temple Camp.
“Wilfraid, Wilfraid!” they called. “Run faster, you’ll catch it! There
it goes in the gutter, Wilfraid. Wilfraid Coward! Giddap, horsy! Giddap,
Wilfraid!”
It was with these cruel taunts ringing in his ears that Wilfred was laid
low by the old enemy—the only foe that ever dared to lay hand on him.
Treacherous to the last, his old adversary, diphtheria, with which he
had fought a good fight, struck him to the ground amid the chorus of
scornful mirth which he had aroused.