Little Starr Endicott, sleeping in her costly lace-draped crib on her
downy embroidered pillow, knew nothing of the sin and hate and murder
that rolled in a great wave on the streets outside, and had almost
touched her own little life and blotted it out. She knew not that three
notable families whose names were interwoven in her own, and whose
blood flowed in her tiny veins represented the great hated class of the
Rich, and that those upon whom they had climbed to this height looked
upon them as an evil to be destroyed; nor did she know that she, being
the last of the race, and in her name representing them all, was hated
most of all.
Starr Delevan Endicott! It was graven upon her tiny pins and locket,
upon the circlet of gold that jewelled her finger, upon her brushes and
combs; it was broidered upon her dainty garments, and coverlets and
cushions, and crooned to her by the adoring Scotch nurse who came of a
line that knew and loved an aristocracy. The pride of the house of
Starr, the wealth of the house of Delevan, the glory of the house of
Endicott, were they not all hers, this one beautiful baby who lay in
her arms to tend and to love. So mused Morton as she hummed:
“O hush thee my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a ladie, both gentle and bright—”
And what cared Morton that the mother in this case was neither gentle
nor bright, but only beautiful and selfish? It did but make the child
the dearer that she had her love to herself.
And so the little Starr lay sleeping in her crib, and the boy, her
preserver, from nobody knew where, and of nobody knew what name or
fame, lay sleeping also. And presently Delevan Endicott himself came to
look at them both.
He came from the swirl of the sinful turbulent world outside, and from
his fretting, petted wife’s bedside. She had been fretting at him for
allowing a bank in which he happened to be president to do anything
which should cause such a disturbance outside her home, when he knew
she was so nervous. Not one word about the little step that had stood
for an instant between her baby and eternity. Her husband reminded her
gently how near their baby had come to death, and how she should
rejoice that she was safe, but her reply had been a rush of tears, and
“Oh, yes, you always think of the baby, never of me, your wife!”
With a sigh the man had turned from his fruitless effort to calm her
troubled mind and gone to his little daughter. He had hoped that his
wife would go with him, but he saw the hopelessness of that idea.
The little girl lay with one plump white arm thrown over her head, the
curling baby fingers just touching the rosy cheek, flushed with sleep.
She looked like a rosebud herself, so beautiful among the rose and
lacey draperies of her couch. Her dark curls, so fine and soft and
wonderful, with their hidden purple shadows, and the long dark curling
lashes, to match the finely pencilled brows, brought out each delicate
feature of the lovely little face. The father, as he looked down upon
her, wondered how it could have been in the heart of any creature, no
matter how wicked, to put out this vivid little life. His little Starr,
his one treasure!
The man that had tried to do it, could he have intended it really, or
was it only a random shot? The testimony of those who saw judged it
intention. The father’s quickened heart-beats told him it was, and he
felt that the thrust had gone deep. How they had meant to hurt him! How
they must have hated him to have wished to hurt him so! How they would
have hurt his life irretrievably if the shot had done its work. If that
other little atom of human life had not intervened!
Where was the boy who had saved his child? He must go and see him at
once. The gratitude of a lifetime should be his.
Morton divined his thought, as he stepped from the sacred crib softly
after bending low to sweep his lips over the rosy velvet of little
Starr’s cheek. With silent tread she followed her master to the door:
“The poor wee b’y’s in the far room yon,” she said in a soft whisper,
and her tone implied that his duty lay next in that direction. The
banker had often noticed this gentle suggestion in the nurse’s voice,
it minded him of something in his childhood and he invariably obeyed
it. He might have resented it if it had been less humble, less
trustfully certain that of course that was the thing that he meant to
do next. He followed her direction now without a word.
The boy had just fallen asleep when he entered, and lay as sweetly
beautiful as the little vivid beauty he had left in the other room. The
man of the world paused and instinctively exclaimed in wonder. He had
been told that it was a little gamin who had saved his daughter from
the assassin’s bullet, but the features of this child were as
delicately chiseled, his form as finely modeled, his hair as soft and
fine as any scion of a noble house might boast. He, like the nurse, had
the feeling that a young god lay before him. It was so that Mikky
always had impressed a stranger even when his face was dirty and his
feet were bare.
The man stood with bowed head and looked upon the boy to whom he felt
he owed a debt which he could never repay.
He recognized the child as a representative of that great unwashed
throng of humanity who were his natural enemies, because by their
oppression and by stepping upon their rights when it suited his
convenience, he had risen to where he now stood, and was able to
maintain his position. He had no special feeling for them, any of them,
more than if they had been a pack of wolves whose fangs he must keep
clear of, and whose hides he must get as soon as convenient; but this
boy was different! This spirit-child with the form of Apollo, the
beauty of Adonis, and the courage of a hero! Could he have come from
the hotbeds of sin and corruption? It could not be! Sure there must be
some mistake. He must be of good birth. Enquiry must be made. Had
anyone asked the child’s name and where he lived?
Then, as if in answer to his thought, the dark blue eyes suddenly
opened. He found them looking at him, and started as he realized it, as
if a picture on which he gazed had suddenly turned out to be alive. And
yet, for the instant, he could not summon words, but stood meeting that
steady searching gaze of the child, penetrating, questioning, as if the
eyes would see and understand the very foundation principles on which
the man’s life rested. The man felt it, and had the sensation of
hastily looking at his own motives in the light of this child’s look.
Would his life bear that burning appealing glance?
Then, unexpectedly the child’s face lit up with his wonderful smile. He
had decided to trust the man.
Never before in all his proud and varied experience had Delevan
Endicott encountered a challenge like that. It beat through him like a
mighty army and took his heart by storm, it flashed into his eyes and
dazzled him. It was the challenge of childhood to the fatherhood of the
man. With a strange new impulse the man accepted it, and struggling to
find words, could only answer with a smile.
A good deal passed between them before any words were spoken at all, a
good deal that the boy never forgot, and that the man liked to turn
back to in his moments of self-reproach, for somehow that boy’s eyes
called forth the best that was in him, and made him ashamed of other
things.
“Boy, who is your father?” at last asked the man huskily. He almost
dreaded to find another father owning a noble boy like this—and such a
father as he would be if it were true that he was only a street gamin.
The boy still smiled, but a wistfulness came into his eyes. He slowly
shook his head.
“Dead, is he?” asked the man more as if thinking aloud. But the boy
shook his head again.
“No, no father,” he answered simply.
“Oh,” said the man, and a lump gathered in his throat. “Your mother?”
“No mother, never!” came the solemn answer. It seemed that he scarcely
felt that either of these were deep lacks in his assets. Very likely
fathers and mothers were not on the average desirable kindred in the
neighborhood from which he came. The man reflected and tried again.
“Who are your folks? They’ll be worried about you. We ought to send
them word you’re doing well?”
The boy looked amazed, then a laugh rippled out.
“No folks,” he gurgled, “on’y jest de kids.”
“Your brothers and sisters?” asked Endicott puzzled.
“None o’ dem,” said Mikky. “Buck an’ me’re pards. We fights fer de
other kids.”
“Don’t you know it’s wrong to fight?”
Mikky stared.
Endicott tried to think of something to add to his little moral homily,
but somehow could not.
“It’s very wrong to fight,” he reiterated lamely.
The boy’s cherub mouth settled into firm lines.
“It’s wronger not to, when de little kids is gettin’ hurt, an’ de big
fellers what ought ter work is stole away they bread, an’ they’s
hungry.”
It was an entirely new proposition. It was the challenge of the poor
against the rich, of the weak against the strong, and from the lips of
a mere babe. The man wondered and answered not.
“I’d fight fer your little kid!” declared the young logician. He seemed
to know by instinct that this was the father of his baby.
Ah, now he had touched the responsive chord. The father’s face lit up.
He understood. Yes, it was right to fight for his baby girl, his little
Starr, his one treasure, and this boy had done it, given his life
freely. Was that like fighting for those other unloved, uncared-for,
hungry darlings? Were they then dear children, too, of somebody, of
God, if nobody else? The boy’s eyes were telling him plainly in one
long deep look, that all the world of little children at least was kin,
and the grateful heart of the father felt that in mere decency of
gratitude he must acknowledge so much. Poor little hungry babies. What
if his darling were hungry! A sudden longing seized his soul to give
them bread at once to eat. But at least he would shower his gratitude
upon this one stray defender of their rights.
He struggled to find words to let the child know of this feeling but
only the tears gathering quickly in his eyes spoke for him.
“Yes, yes, my boy! You did fight for my little girl. I know, I’ll never
forget it of you as long as I live. You saved her life, and that’s
worth everything to me. Everything, do you understand?”
At last the words rushed forth, but his voice was husky, and those who
knew him would have declared him more moved than they had ever seen
him.
The boy understood. A slender brown hand stole out from the white
coverlet and touched his. Its outline, long and supple and graceful,
spoke of patrician origin. It was hard for the man of wealth and pride
to realize that it was the hand of the child of the common people, the
people who were his enemies.
“Is there anything you would like to have done for you, boy?” he asked
at last because the depth of emotion was more than he could bear.
The boy looked troubled.
“I was thinkin’, ef Buck an’ them could see me, they’d know ’twas all
right. I’d like ’em fine to know how ’tis in here.”
“You want me to bring them up to see you?”
Mikky nodded.
“Where can I find them, do you think?”
“Buck, he won’t go fur, till he knows what’s comed o’ me,” said the boy
with shining confidence in his friend. “He’d know I’d do that fur him.”
Then it seemed there was such a thing as honor and loyalty among the
lower ranks of men—at least among the boys. The man of the world was
learning a great many things. Meekly he descended the two flights of
stairs and went out to his own front doorsteps.
There were no crowds any more. The police were still on duty, but
curious passersby dared not linger long. The workmen had finished the
windows and gone. The man felt little hope of finding the boys, but
somehow he had a strange desire to do so. He wanted to see that face
light up once more. Also, he had a curious desire to see these
youngsters from the street who could provoke such loving anxiety from
the hero upstairs.
Mikky was right, Buck would not go far away until he knew how it was
with his comrade. He had indeed moved off at the officer’s word when
the doctor promised to bring him word later, but in his heart he did
not intend to let a soul pass in or out of that house all day that he
did not see, and so he set his young pickets here and there about the
block, each with his bunch of papers, and arranged a judicious change
occasionally, to avoid trouble with the officers.
Buck was standing across the street on the corner by the church steps,
making a lively show of business now and then and keeping one eye on
the house that had swallowed up his partner. He was not slow to
perceive that he was being summoned by a man upon the steps, and ran
eagerly up with his papers, expecting to receive his coin, and maybe a
glimpse inside the door.
“All about der shootin’ of der bank millionaire’s baby!” he yelled in
his most finished voice of trade, and the father, thinking of what
might have been, felt a pang of horror at the careless words from the
gruff little voice.
“Do you know a boy named Buck?” he questioned as he deliberately paid
for the paper that was held up to him, and searched the unpromising
little face before him. Then marvelled at the sullen, sly change upon
the dirty face.
The black brows drew down forbodingly, the dark eyes reminded Mm of a
caged lion ready to spring if an opportunity offered. The child had
become a man with a criminal’s face. There was something frightful
about the defiant look with which the boy drew himself up.
“What if I does?”
“Only that there’s a boy in here,” motioning toward the door, “would
like very much to see him for a few minutes. If you know where he is, I
wish you’d tell him.”
Then there came a change more marvelous than before. It was as if the
divine in the soul had suddenly been revealed through a rift in the
sinful humanity. The whole defiant face became eager, the black eyes
danced with question, the brows settled into straight pleasant lines,
and the mouth sweetened as with pleasant thoughts.
“Is’t Mikky?” He asked in earnest voice. “Kin we get in? I’ll call de
kids. He’ll want ’em. He allus wants der kids.” He placed his fingers
in his mouth, stretching it into a curious shape, and there issued
forth a shriek that might have come from the mouth of an exulting
fiend, so long and shrill and sharp it was. The man on the steps, his
nerves already wrought to the snapping point, started angrily. Then
suddenly around the corner at a swift trot emerged three ragged
youngsters who came at their leader’s command swiftly and eagerly.
“Mikky wants us!” explained Buck. “Now youse foller me, ’n don’t you
say nothin’ less I tell you.”
They fell in line, behind the bank president, and followed awed within
the portal that unlocked a palace more wonderful than Aladdin’s to
their astonished gaze.
Up the stairs they slunk, single file, the bare feet and the illy-shod
alike going silently and sleuth-like over the polished stairs. They
skulked past open doors with frightened defiant glances, the defiance
of the very poor for the very rich, the defiance that is born and bred
in the soul from a face to face existence with hunger and cold and need
of every kind. They were defiant but they took it all in, and for many
a day gave details highly embellished of the palace where Mikky lay. It
seemed to them that heaven itself could show no grander sights.
In a stricken row against the wall, with sudden consciousness of their
own delinquencies of attire, ragged caps in hands, grimy hands behind
them, they stood and gazed upon their fallen hero-comrade.
Clean, they had never perhaps seen his face before. The white robe that
was upon him seemed a robe of unearthly whiteness. It dazzled their
gaze. The shining of his newly-washed hair was a glory crown upon his
head. They saw him gathered into another world than any they knew. It
could have seemed no worse to them if the far heaven above the narrow
city streets had opened its grim clouds and received their comrade from
their sight. They were appalled. How could he ever be theirs again? How
could it all have happened in the few short hours since Mikky flashed
past them and fell a martyr to his kindly heart and saved the wicked
rich man his child? The brows of Buck drew together in his densest
frown. He felt that Mikky, their Mikky was having some terrible change
come upon him.
Then Mikky turned and smiled upon them all, and in his dear familiar
voice shouted, “Say, kids, ain’t this grand? Say, I jes’ wish you was
all in it! Ef you, Buck, an’ the kids was here in this yer grand bed
I’d be havin’ the time o’ me life!”
That turned the tide. Buck swallowed hard and smiled his darker smile,
and the rest grinned sheepishly. Grandeur and riches had not spoiled
their prince. He was theirs still and he had wanted them. He had sent
for them. They gained courage to look around on the spotlessly clean
room, on the nurse in her crackling dignity; on the dish of oranges
which she promptly handed to them and of which each in awe partook a
golden sphere; on the handful of bright flowers that Morton had brought
but a few minutes before and placed on a little stand by the bed; on
the pictures that hung upon the walls, the like of which they had never
seen, before, and then back to the white white bed that held their
companion. They could not get used to the whiteness and the cleanness
of his clean, clean face and hands, and bright gold hair. It burned
like a flame against the pillow, and Mikky’s blue eyes seemed darker
and deeper than ever before. To Buck they had given their obedient
following, and looked to him for protection, but after all he was one
like themselves, only a little more fearless. To Mikky they all gave a
kind of far-seeing adoration. He was fearless and brave like Buck, but
he was something more. In their superstitious fear and ignorance he
seemed to them almost supernatural.
They skulked, silently down the stairs like frightened rabbits when the
interview was over, each clutching his precious orange, and not until
the great doors had closed upon them, did they utter a word. They had
said very little. Mikky had done all the talking.
When they had filed down the street behind their leader, and rounded
the corner out of sight of the house, Buck gathered them into a little
knot and said solemnly: “Kids. I bet cher Mik don’t be comin’ out o’
this no more. Didn’t you take notice how he looked jes’ like the angel
top o’ the monnemunt down to the cemtary?”
The little group took on a solemnity that was deep and real.
“Annyhow, he wanted us!” spoke up a curly-headed boy with old eyes and
a thin face. He was one whom Mikky had been won’t to defend. He bore a
hump upon his ragged back.
“Aw! he’s all right fer us, is Mik,” said Buck, “but he’s different nor
us. Old Aunt Sal she said one day he were named fer a ’n’angel, an’
like as not he’ll go back where he b’longs some day, but he won’t never
fergit us. He ain’t like rich folks what don’t care. He’s our pard
allus. Come on, fellers.”
Down the back alley went the solemn little procession, single file,
till they reached the rear of the Endicott house, where they stood
silent as before a shrine, till at a signal from their leader, each
grimy right hand was raised, and gravely each ragged cap was taken off
and held high in the air toward the upper window, where they knew their
hero-comrade lay. Then they turned and marched silently away.
They were all in place before the door whenever the doctor came
thereafter, and always went around by the way of the alley afterward
for their ceremonial good night, sometimes standing solemnly beneath
the cold stars while the shrill wind blew through their thin garments,
but always as long as the doctor brought them word, or as long as the
light burned in the upper window, they felt their comrade had not gone
yet.