Into a new world came Mikky, a world of blue skies, song birds, and
high, tall pines with waving moss and dreamy atmosphere; a world of
plenty to eat and wear, and light and joy and ease.
Yet it was a most bewildering world to the boy, and for the first week
he stood off and looked at it questioningly, suspiciously. True, there
were no dark cellars or freezing streets, no drunken fathers or
frightened children, or blows, or hunger or privation; but this
education he had come to seek that he might go back to his own world
and better it, was not a garment one put on and exercised in so many
times a day; it was not a cup from which one drank, nor an atmosphere
that one absorbed. It was a strange, imperceptible thing got at in some
mysterious way by a series of vague struggles followed by sudden and
almost alarming perceptions. For a time it seemed to the boy, keen
though his mind, and quick, that knowledge was a thing only granted to
the few, and his was a mind that would never grasp it. How, for
instance, did one know how to make just the right figures under a line
when one added a long perplexity of numbers? Mikky the newsboy could
tell like a flash how much change he needed to return to the fat
gentleman who occasionally gave him a five-dollar bill to change on
Broadway; but Mikky the scholar, though he knew figures, and was able
to study out with labor easy words in his papers, had never heard of
adding up figures in the way they did here, long rows of them on the
blackboard. It became necessary that this boy should have some private
instruction before he would be able to enter classes. Professor
Harkness himself undertook the task, and gradually revealed to the
child’s neglected understanding some of the simple rudiments that would
make his further progress possible. The sum that was paid for his
tuition made it quite necessary that the boy advance reasonably, for
his benefactor had made it understood that he might some day visit the
institution and see how he was getting on. So great pains were taken to
enlighten Mikky’s darkness.
There was another thing that the boy could not understand, and that was
the discipline that ruled everywhere. He had always been a law unto
himself, his only care being to keep out of the way of those who would
interfere with this. Now he must rise with a bell, stay in his room
until another bell, eat at a bell, go to the hard bench in the
schoolroom with another bell, and even play ball when the recreation
bell rang. It was hard on an independent spirit to get used to all
this, and while he had no mind to be disorderly, he often broke forth
into direct disobedience of the law from sheer misunderstanding of the
whole régime.
The boys’ dormitory was presided over by a woman who, while thorough in
all housekeeping arrangements, had certainly mistaken her calling as a
substitute mother for boys. She kept their clothes in order, saw to it
that their rooms were aired, their stockings darned and their lights
out at exactly half-past nine, but the grimness of her countenance
forbade any familiarity, and she never thought of gaining the
confidence of her rough, but affectionate charges. There was no
tenderness in her, and Mikky never felt like smiling in her presence.
He came and went with a sort of high, unconscious superiority that
almost irritated the woman, because she was not great enough to see the
unusual spirit of the child; and as a consequence she did not win his
heart.
But he did not miss the lack of motherliness in her, for he had never
known a mother and was not expecting it.
The professors he grew to like, some more, some less, always admiring
most those who seemed to him to deal in a fair and righteous manner
with their classes—fairness being judged by the code in use among “the
kids” in New York. But that was before he grew to know the president.
After that his code changed.
His first interview with that dignitary was on an afternoon when he had
been overheard by the matron to use vile language among the boys at the
noon hour. She hauled him up with her most severe manner, and gave him
to understand that he must answer to the president for his conduct.
As Mikky had no conception of his offence he went serenely to his fate
walking affably beside her, only wishing she would not look so sour. As
they crossed the campus to the president’s house a blue jay flew
overhead, and a mocking bird trilled in a live oak near-by. The boy’s
face lighted with joy and he laughed out gleefully, but the matron only
looked the more severe, for she thought him a hardened little sinner
who was defying her authority and laughing her to scorn. After that it
was two years before she could really believe anything good of Mikky.
The president was a noble-faced, white-haired scholar, with a firm
tender mouth, a brow of wisdom, and eyes of understanding. He was not
the kind who win by great athletic prowess, he was an old-fashioned
gentleman, well along in years, but young in heart. He looked at the
child of the slums and saw the angel in the clay.
He dismissed the matron with a pleasant assurance and took Mikky to an
inner office where he let the boy sit quietly waiting a few minutes
till he had finished writing a letter. If the pen halted and the kind
eyes furtively studied the beautiful face of the child, Mikky never
knew it.
The president asked the boy to tell him what he had said, and Mikky,
with sweet assurance repeated innocently the terrible phrases he had
used, phrases which had been familiar to him since babyhood, conveying
statements of facts that were horrible, but nevertheless daily
happenings in the corner of the world where he had brought himself up.
With rare tact the president questioned the boy, until he made sure
there was no inherent rottenness in him: and then gently and kindly,
but firmly laid down the law and explained why it was right and
necessary that there should be a law. He spoke of the purity of God.
Mikky knew nothing of God and listened with quiet interest. The
president talked of education and culture and made matters very plain
indeed. Then when the interview was concluded and the man asked the boy
for a pledge of good faith and clean language from that time forth,
Mikky’s smile of approval blazed forth and he laid his hand in that of
the president readily enough, and went forth from the room with a great
secret admiration of the man with whom he had just talked. The whole
conversation had appealed to him deeply.
Mikky sought his room and laboriously spelled out with lately acquired
clumsiness a letter to Buck:
“Dear Buck we mussent yuz endecent langwidg enay moor ner swar. God
donte lyk it an’ it ain’t educated. I want you an’ me to be educate. I
ain’t gone to, donte yoo ner let de kids.—
Mikky.”
In due time, according to previous arrangement about the monthly
allowance, this letter reached Buck, and he tracked the doctor for two
whole days before he located him and lay in wait till he came out to
his carriage, when he made bold to hand over the letter to be read.
The doctor, deeply touched, translated as best he could. Buck’s
education had been pitifully neglected. He watched the mystic paper in
awe as the doctor read.
“Wot’s indecent langwidge?” he asked with his heavy frown.
The doctor took the opportunity to deliver a brief sermon on purity,
and Buck, without so much as an audible thank you, but with a
thoughtful air that pleased the doctor, took back his letter, stuffed
it into his ragged pocket and went on his way. The man watched him
wistfully, wondering whether Mikky’s appeal could reach the hardened
little sinner; and, sighing at the wickedness of the world, went on his
way grimly trying to make a few things better.
That night “the kids” were gathered in front of little Janie’s window,
for she was too weak to go out with them, and Buck delivered a lesson
in ethical culture. Whatever Mikky, their Prince, ordered, that must be
done, and Buck was doing his level best, although for the life of him
he couldn’t see the sense in it. But thereafter none of “the kids” were
allowed to use certain words and phrases, and swearing gradually became
eliminated from their conversation. It would have been a curious study
for a linguist to observe just what words and phrases were cut out, and
what were allowed to flourish unrebuked; but nevertheless it was a
reform, and Buck was doing his best.
With his schoolmates Mikky had a curiously high position even from the
first. His clothes were good and he had always a little money to spend.
That had been one of Endicott’s wishes that the boy should be like
other boys. It meant something among a group of boys, most of whom were
the sons of rich fathers, sent down to Florida on account of weak lungs
or throats. Moreover, he was brave beyond anything they had ever seen
before, could fight like a demon in defense of a smaller boy, and did
not shrink from pitching into a fellow twice his size. He could tell
all about the great base-ball and foot-ball games of New York City,
knew the pitchers by name and yet did not boast uncomfortably. He could
swim like a duck and dive fearlessly. He could outrun them all, by his
lightness of foot, and was an expert in gliding away from any hand that
sought to hold him back. They admired him from the first.
His peculiar street slang did not trouble them in the least, nor his
lack of class standing, though that presently began to be a thing of
the past, for Mikky, so soon as he understood the way, marched
steadily, rapidly, up the hill of knowledge, taking in everything that
was handed out to him and assimilating it. It began to look as if there
would not be any left over courses in the curriculum that might be
given to some other deserving youth. Mikky would need them all. The
president and the professors began presently to be deeply interested in
this boy without a past; and everywhere, with every one, Mikky’s smile
won his way; except with the matron, who had not forgiven him that her
recommendation of his instant dismissal from the college had not been
accepted.
The boys had not asked many questions about him, nor been told much.
They knew his father and mother were dead. They thought he had a rich
guardian, perhaps a fortune some day coming, they did not care. Mikky
never spoke about any of these things and there was a strange reticence
about him that made them dislike to ask him questions; even, when they
came to know him well. He was entered under the name of Endicott,
because, on questioning him Professor Harkness found he could lay no
greater claim to any other surname, and called him that until he could
write to Mr. Endicott for advice. He neglected to write at once and
then, the name having become fastened upon the boy, he thought it best
to let the matter alone as there was little likelihood of Mr.
Endicott’s coming down to the college, and it could do no harm. He
never stopped to think out possible future complications and the boy
became known as Michael Endicott.
But his companions, as boys will, thought the matter over, and
rechristened him “Angel”; and Angel, or Angel Endy he became, down to
the end of his college course.
One great delight of his new life was the out-of-door freedom he
enjoyed. A beautiful lake spread its silver sheet at the foot of the
campus slope and here the boy revelled in swimming and rowing. The
whole country round was filled with wonder to his city-bred eyes. He
attached himself to the teacher of natural sciences, and took long
silent tramps for miles about. They penetrated dense hammocks,
gathering specimens of rare orchids and exquisite flowers; they stood
motionless and breathless for hours watching and listening to some
strange wild bird; they became the familiar of slimy coiling serpents
in dark bogs, and of green lizards and great black velvet spiders; they
brought home ravishing butterflies and moths of pale green and gold and
crimson. Mikky’s room became a museum of curious and wonderful things,
and himself an authority on a wide and varied range of topics.
The new life with plenty of wholesome plain food, plenty of fresh air,
long nights of good sleep, and happy exercise were developing the young
body into strength and beauty, even as the study and contact, with life
were developing the mind. Mikky grew up tall and straight and strong.
In all the school, even among the older boys, there was none suppler,
none so perfectly developed. His face and form were beautiful as
Adonis, and yet it was no pink and white feminine beauty. There was
strength, simplicity and character in his face. With the acceptance of
his new code of morals according to the president, had grown gradually
a certain look of high moral purpose. No boy in his presence dared use
language not up to the standard. No boy with his knowledge dared do a
mean or wrong thing. And yet, in spite of this, not a boy in the school
but admired him and was more or less led by him. If he had been one
whit less brave, one shade more conscious of self and self’s interests,
one tiny bit conceited, this would not have been. But from being a
dangerous experiment in their midst Mikky became known as a great
influence for good. The teachers saw it and marvelled. The matron saw
it and finally, though grudgingly, accepted it. The president saw it
and rejoiced. The students saw it not, but acknowledged it in their
lives.
Mikky’s flame of gold hair had grown more golden and flaming with the
years, so that when their ball team went to a near-by town to play,
Mikky was sighted by the crowd and pointed out conspicuously at once.
“Who is that boy with the hair?” some one would ask one of the team.
“That? Oh, that’s the Angel! Wait till you see him play,” would be the
reply. And he became known among outsiders as the Angel with the golden
hair. At a game a listener would hear:
“Oh, see! see! There’ll be something doing now. The Angel’s at the
bat!”
Yet in spite of all this the boy lived a lonely life. Giving of himself
continually to those about him, receiving in return their love and
devotion, he yet felt in a great sense set apart from them all. Every
now and again some boy’s father or mother, or both, would come down for
a trip through the South; or a sister or a little brother. Then that
boy would be excused from classes and go off with his parents for
perhaps a whole week; or they would come to visit him every day, and
Michael would look on and see the love light beaming in their eyes.
That would never be for him. No one had ever loved him in that way.
Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to get back in memory to the
time when he was shot; and the wonder of the soft bed, the sweet room,
and little Starr’s kisses. But the years were multiplying now and room
and nurse and all were growing very dim. Only little Starr’s kisses
remained, a delicate fragrance of baby love, the only kisses that the
boy had ever known. One day, when a classmate had been telling of the
coming of his father and what it would mean to him, Michael went into
his room and locking his door sat down and wrote a stiff school boy
letter to his benefactor, thanking him for all that he had done for
him. It told briefly, shyly of a faint realization of that from which
he had been saved; it showed a proper respect, and desire to make good,
and it touched the heart of the busy man who had almost forgotten about
the boy, but it gave no hint of the heart hunger which had prompted its
writing.
The next winter, when Michael was seventeen, Delevan Endicott and his
daughter Starr took a flying trip through the South, and stopped for a
night and a day at the college.
The president told Michael of his expected coming. Professor Harkness
had gone north on some school business.
The boy received the news quietly enough, with one of his brilliant
smiles, but went to his room with a tumult of wonder, joy, and almost
fear in his heart. Would Mr. Endicott be like what he remembered, kind
and interested and helpful? Would he be pleased with the progress his
protégé had made, or would he be disappointed? Would there be any
chance to ask after little Starr? She was a baby still in the thoughts
of the boy, yet of course she must have grown. And so many things might
have happened—she might not be living now. No one would think or care
to tell him.
Baby Starr! His beautiful baby! He exulted in the thought that he had
flung his little useless life, once, between her lovely presence and
death! He would do it again gladly now if that would repay all that her
father had done for him. Michael the youth was beginning to understand
all that that meant.
Those other friends of his, Buck, Jimmie, Bobs, and the rest, were
still enshrined in his faithful heart, though their memory had grown
dimmer with the full passing years. Faithfully every month the boy had
sent Buck two dollars from his pocket money, his heart swelling with
pleasure that he was helping those he loved, but only twice had any
word come back from that far city where he had left them. In answer to
the letter which the doctor had translated to them, there had come a
brief laborious epistle, terse and to the point, written with a stub of
pencil on the corner of a piece of wrapping paper, and addressed by a
kindly clerk at the post office where Buck bought the stamped envelope.
It was the same clerk who usually paid to the urchin his monthly money
order, so he knew the address. For the inditing of the letter Buck went
to night school two whole weeks before he could master enough letters
and words to finish it to his satisfaction, It read:
“Deer Mik WE WunT
“Buck.”
The significant words filled the boy’s heart with pride over his friend
whenever he thought of it, even after some time had passed. He had
faith in Buck. Somehow in his mind it seemed that Buck was growing and
keeping pace with him, and he never dreamed that if Buck should see him
now he would not recognize him.
When Mikky had been in Florida several years another letter had come
from Buck addressed in the same way, and little better written than the
other. Night school had proved too strenuous for Buck; besides, he felt
he knew enough for all practical purposes and it was not likely he
would need to write many letters. This, however, was an occasion that
called for one.
“Dear Mikky Jany is DEAD sHe sayd tell yo hur LUV beeryd hur in owr
kote we giv hur ther wuz a angle wit pink wins on top uv the wite hurs
an a wite hors we got a lot uv flowers by yur money so yo needn sen no
mor money kuz we ken got long now til yo cum BUCK.”
After that, though Michael had written as usual every month for some
time no reply had come, and the money orders had been returned to him
as not called for. Buck in his simplicity evidently took it for granted
that Mikky would not send the money and so came no more to the office,
at least that was the solution Michael put upon it, and deep down in
his heart he registered a vow to go and hunt up Buck the minute he was
through at college, and free to go back to New York and help his
friends. Meantime, though the years had dimmed those memories of his
old life, and the days went rapidly forward in study, he kept always in
view his great intention of one day going back to better his native
community.
But the coming of Mr. Endicott was a great event to the boy. He could
scarcely sleep the night before the expected arrival.
It was just before the evening meal that the through train from New
York reached the station. Michael had been given the privilege of going
down to meet his benefactor.
Tall and straight and handsome he stood upon the platform as the train
rushed into the town, his cheeks glowing from excitement, his eyes
bright with anticipation, his cap in his hand, and the last rays of the
setting sun glowing in his golden hair, giving a touch like a halo
round his head. When Endicott saw him he exclaimed mentally over his
strength and manly beauty, and more than one weary tourist leaned from
the open car window and gazed, for there was ever something strange and
strong and compelling about Michael that reminded one of the beauty of
an angel.