It was the next day that Randolph Anderson, on his way home at noon,
saw ahead of him, just as he turned the corner from Main to Elm
street, where his own house was, a knot of boys engaged in what he at
first thought was a fight or its preliminaries. There was a great
clamor, too. In the boughs of a maple in the near-by yard were two
robins wrangling; underneath were the boys. The air was full of the
sweet jangle of birds and boyish trebles, for all the boys were
young. Anderson, as he came up, glanced indifferently at the
turbulent group and saw one boy who seemed to be the centre of
contention. He was backed up against the fence, an ornate iron affair
backed by a thick hedge, the green leaves of which pricked through
the slender iron uprights. In front of this green, iron-grated wall,
which was higher than his head, for he was a little fellow, stood a
boy, who Anderson saw at a glance was the same one whom he had seen
with the Carrolls in church the day before. His hair was rather long
and a toss of dark curls. His face was as tenderly pretty as his
sister's, whom he strongly resembled, although he was somewhat fairer
of complexion. But it was full of the utmost bravado of rage and
defiance, and his two small hands were clinched, until the knuckles
whitened, in the faces of the little crowd who confronted him. The
color had not left his face, for his cheeks burned like roses, but
his pretty mouth was hard set and his black eyes blazed. The boys
danced and made threatening feints at him. They called out confused
taunts and demands whose purport Anderson at first did not
comprehend, but the boy never swerved. When one of his tormentors
came nearer, out swung the little white fist at him, and the other
invariably dodged.
Anderson's curiosity grew. He went closer. Amidon and Ray, the
postmaster, on his way home to his dinner, also joined him, and the
little barber, smelling strongly of scented soap and witch-hazel.
They stood listening interestedly.
"Most too many against one," remarked the postmaster.
"He don't look scared," said Amidon. "He's Southern, and he's got
grit. He's backed up there like the whole Confederacy."
A kindly look overspread the sleek, conceited face of the man. His
forebears were from Alabama. His father had been a small white
slave-owner who had drifted North, in a state of petty ruin after the
war, and there Amidon, who had been a child at the time, had grown up
and married the thrifty woman who supported him. The wrangle
increased, the boys danced more energetically, the small fists of the
boy at bay were on closer guard.
"Hi, there!" sung out Amidon. "Look at here; there's too many of ye.
Look out ye don't git into no mischief, now."
"Hullo, boys! what's the trouble?" shouted the postmaster, in a voice
of authority. He was used to running these same boys out of his
office when they became too boisterous during the distribution of the
mails, making precipitate dashes from the inner sanctum of the United
States government. They were accustomed to the sound of his important
shout, and a few eyes rolled over shoulder at him. But they soon
plunged again into their little whirlpool of excitement, for they
were quick-witted and not slow to reason that they were now on the
king's highway where they had as much right as the postmaster, and
could not be coerced under his authority.
"What is it all about?" the postmaster called, loudly, above the
hubbub, to Anderson.
Anderson shook his head. He was listening to the fusillade of
taunting, threatening yells, with his forehead knitted. Then all
at once he understood. Over and over, with every pitch possible
to the boyish threats, the cry intermingling and crossing until
all the vowels and consonants overlapped, the boys repeated:
"Yerlie--yerlie--yerlie--" They clipped the reproach short; they
elongated it into a sliding thrill. From one boy, larger than the
others, and whose voice was changing, came at intervals the demand,
in a hoarse, cracking treble, with sudden descents into gulfs of
bass: "Take it ba-ck! Take it ba-ck!"
Always in response to that demand of the large boy, who was always
the one who danced closest to the boy at bay, came the reply, in a
voice like a bird's, "Die first--die first."
After a most energetic dash of this large boy, Anderson stepped up
and caught him by the shoulder on his retreat from the determined
little fist. He knew the large boy; he was a nephew of Henry Lee,
whose wife had invaded the Carroll house in the absence of the family.
"See here, Harry," said Anderson, "what is this about, eh?"
The large boy, who, in spite of his size, was a youngster, looked at
once terrifiedly and pugnaciously into his face, and beginning with a
whimper of excuse to Anderson, ended with a snarl of wrath for the
other boy. "He tells lies, he does. He tells lies. Ya-h!" The boy
danced at the other even under Anderson's restraining hand on his
shoulder. "Yerlie--yerlie! Ya-h!" he yelled, and all the others
joined in. The chorus was deafening. Anderson's hand on the boy's
shoulder tightened. He shook him violently. The boy's cap fell off,
and his shock of fair hair waved. He rolled eyes of terrified wonder
at his captor. "What, wha-at?--" he stammered. "You lemme be. You--
Wha-at?"
"I'll tell you what, you big bully, you," said Anderson, sternly.
"That boy there is one to a dozen, and he's the smallest of the
lot--he's half your size. Now, what in thunder are you all about,
badgering that little chap so?"
A sudden silence prevailed. They all stood looking from under lowered
eyebrows at the group of watching men; their small shoulders under
their little school-jackets were seen to droop; scarcely a boy but
shuffled his right leg, while their hands, which had been gyrating
fists, unclinched and twitched at their sides. But the boy did not
relax for a second his expression of leaping, bounding rage, of a
savage young soul in a feeble body. Now he included Anderson and the
other men. He held his head with the haughtiness of a prince. He
seemed to question them with silent wrath.
"Who are you who dare to come here and interfere in my quarrel?" he
seemed to say. "I was sufficient unto myself. I needed none of your
protection. What if I was one to a dozen? Look at _me!_" His little
hands did not for a second unclinch. He was really very young,
probably no more than ten. He was scarcely past his babyhood, but he
was fairly impressive, not the slightest maturity of mind, but of
spirit. He could never take a fiercer stand against odds than now if
he lived to be a hundred.
Anderson approached him, in spite of himself, with a certain respect.
"What is the matter, young man?" he inquired, gravely.
The boy regarded him with silent resentment and scorn; he did not
deign an answer. But the big boy replied for him promptly:
"He--he said his father kept a tame elephant when they lived in New
York State, and he--he used to ride him--"
He spoke in a tone of aggrieved virtue, and regarded the other with a
scowl. The men guffawed, and after a second the boys also. Then a
little fellow behind the ringleader offered additional testimony.
"He said he used to get up a private circus once a week, every
Saturday, and charge ten cents a head, and made ten dollars a week,"
he said. Then his voice of angry accusation ended in a chuckle.
Anderson kept his face quite grave, but all the others joined in the
chorus of merriment. The little fellow backed against the iron fence
gave an incredulous start at the sound of the laughter, then the red
roses faded out on his smooth cheeks and he went quite white. The
laughter stung his very soul as no recrimination could have done. He
suffered tortures of mortified pride. His fists were still clinched,
but his proud lip quivered a little. He looked very young--a baby.
Anderson stepped to his aid. He raised his voice. "Now, look here,
boys," he said. But he made no headway against the hilarity, which
swelled higher and higher. The crowd increased. Several more men and
boys were on the outskirts. An ally pressed through the crowd to
Anderson's side.
"Now, boys," he proclaimed, and for a moment his thin squeak weighted
with importance gained a hearing--"now, boys," said the barber, "this
little feller's father is an extinguished new denizen of Banbridge,
and you ain't treatin' of him with proper disrespect. Now--" But then
his voice was drowned in a wilder outburst than ever. The little
crowd of men and boys went fairly mad with hysterical joy of mirth,
as an American crowd will when once overcome by the humor of the
situation in the midst of their stress of life. They now laughed at
the little barber and the boy. The old familiar butt had joined
forces with the new ones.
"They have formed a trust," said Amidon, deserting his partisanship,
now that it had assumed this phase of harmless jocularity.
But the boy at bay, as the laughter at his expense increased, was
fairly frantic. He lost what he had hitherto retained, his
self-possession. "I tell you I did!" he suddenly screamed out, in a
sweet screech, like an angry bird, which commanded the ears of the
crowd from its strangeness. "I tell you I did have an elephant, I did
ride him, and I did have a circus every Saturday afternoon, so there!"
The "so there" was tremendous. The words vanished in the sound. The
boyish expression denoting triumphant climax became individual, the
language of one soul. He fired the words at them all like a charge of
shot. There was a pause of a second, then the laughter and mocking
were recommencing. But Anderson took advantage of the lull.
"See here, boys," he shouted, "there's been enough of this. What is
it to you whether he had a dozen elephants and rode them all at once,
and had a circus every day in the week with a dozen tame bears thrown
in? Clear out and go home and get your dinners. Clear out! Vamoose!
Scatter!" His tone was at once angry and appealing. It implied
authority and comradeship.
Anderson had given great promise as a speaker during his college
course. He was a man who, if he exerted himself, could gauge the
temper of a mob. The men on the outskirts began moving away easily;
the boys followed their example. The little barber took the boy
familiarly by the arm.
"Now, you look at here," said he. "Don't you hev them chaps
a-pesterin' of you no more, an' ef they do, you jest streak right
into my parlor an' I'll take care of ye. See?"
The boy twitched his arm away and eyed the barber witheringly. "I
don't want anything to do with you nor your old barber-shop," said he.
"You had better run along, John," said Anderson to the barber, who
was staring amazedly, although the complacent smirk upon his face was
undiminished.
"I guess he's a child kinder given to speakin' at tandem," he said,
as he complied with Anderson's advice.
The boy turned at once to the man. "What business had that barber
telling me to go into his old barber-shop?" demanded he. "I ain't
afraid of all the boys in this one-horse town."
"Of course not," said Anderson.
"I did have an elephant when I lived in Hillfield, and I did ride
him, and I did have circuses every Saturday," said the boy, with
challenge.
Anderson said nothing.
"At least--" said the child, in a modified tone. Anderson looked at
him with an air of polite waiting. The boy's roses bloomed again. "At
least--" he faltered, "at least--" A maid rang a dinner-bell
frantically in the doorway of the house near which they were
standing. Anderson glanced at her, then back at the boy. "At least--"
said the boy, with a blurt of confidence which yielded nothing, but
implied the recognition of a friend and understander in the
man--"at--least I used to make believe I had an elephant when I lived
in Hillfield."
"Yes?" said Anderson. He made a movement to go, and the boy still
kept at his side.
"And--" he added, but still with no tone of apology or confession, "I
might have had an elephant."
"Yes," said Anderson, "you might have."
"And they did not know but what I might," said the boy, angrily.
Anderson nodded judicially. "That's so, I suppose; only elephants are
not very common as setter dogs for a boy to have around these parts."
"It was a setter dog," said the boy, with a burst of innocence and
admiration. "How did you know?"
"Oh, I guessed."
"You must be real smart," said the boy. "My father said he thought
you were, and somehow had got stranded in a grocery store. Did you?"
"Yes, I did," replied Anderson.
Anderson was now walking quite briskly towards home and dinner, and
the boy was trotting by his side, with seemingly no thought of
parting. They proceeded in silence for a few steps; then the boy
spoke again.
"I began with the setter dog," said he. "His name was Archie, and he
used to jump over the roof of a part of our house as high as"--he
looked about and pointed conclusively at the ell of a house across
the street--"as high as that," he said, with one small pink finger
indicating unwaveringly.
"That must have been quite a jump," remarked Anderson, and his voice
betrayed nothing.
"That setter was an awful jumper," said the little boy. "He died last
winter. My sisters cried, but I didn't." His voice trembled a little.
"He must have been a fine dog," said Anderson.
"Yes, sir, he could jump. I think that piece of our house he used to
jump over was higher than that," said the boy, reflectively, with the
loving tone of a panegyrist who would heap more and more honors and
flowers upon a dear departed.
"A big jump," said Anderson.
"Yes, sir, he was an awful jumper. Those boys they said I lied. First
they said he couldn't do it, then they said I didn't have any dog,
and then I--"
"And then you said you had the elephant?"
"Yes, sir. Say, you ain't going to tell 'em what I've told you?"
"You better believe I'm not. But I tell you one thing--next time, if
you'll take my advice, you had better stick to the setter dog and let
elephants alone."
"Maybe it would be better," said the boy. Then he added, with a
curious sort of naive slyness, "But I haven't said I didn't have any
elephant."
"That's so," said Anderson.
Suddenly, as the two walked along, the man felt a hard, hot little
hand slide into his. "I guess you must be an awful smart man," said
the boy.
"What is your name?" said Anderson, in lieu of a disclaimer, which
somehow he felt would seem to savor of mock modesty in the face of
this youthful enthusiasm.
"Why, don't you know?" asked the boy, in some wonder. "I thought
everybody knew who we were. I am Captain Carroll's son. My name is
Eddy Carroll."
"I knew you were Captain Carroll's son, but I did not know your first
name."
"I knew you," said the boy. "I saw you out in the field catching
butterflies."
"Where were you?"
"Oh, I was fishing. I was under those willows by the brook. I kept
pretty still, and you didn't see me. Have to lay low while you're
fishing, you know."
"Of course," said Anderson.
"I didn't catch anything. I don't believe fish are very thick in the
brooks around here. I used to catch great big fellers when I lived in
Hillfield. One day--"
"When do you have your dinner at home?" broke in Anderson.
"'Most any time. Say, Mr. Anderson, what are you going to have for
dinner?"
Anderson happened to know quite well what he was going to have for
dinner, because he had himself ordered it on the way to the store
that morning. He answered at once:
"Roast lamb and green pease and new potatoes," said he.
"Oh!" said the boy, with unmistakable emphasis.
"And I am quite sure there is going to be a cherry-dumpling for
dessert," said Anderson, reflectively.
"I like all those things," stated the boy, with emphasis that was
pathetic.
The man stopped and looked down at the boy. "Now, see here, my
friend," said he. "Honest, now, no dodging. Never mind if you do like
things. Honest--you can't cheat me, you know--"
The boy looked back at him with eyes of profound simplicity and
faith. "I know it," he replied.
"Well, then, now you tell me, honest, if you do stay and have dinner
with me won't your folks, your mother and your sisters, worry?"
The boy's face, which had been rather anxious, cleared at once. "Oh
no, sir!" he replied. "Amy never worries, and Ina and Charlotte
won't."
"Who is Amy?"
"Amy? Why, Amy is my mother, of course."
"And you are sure she won't worry?"
"Oh no, sir." The boy fairly laughed at the idea. His honesty in this
at least seemed unmistakable.
"Well, then," said Anderson, "come along and have dinner with me."
The boy fairly leaped with delight as, still clinging to the man's
hand, he passed up the little walk to the Anderson house. He could
smell the roast lamb and the green pease.