Billy To-morrow Stands the Test

NO student of the Fifth Avenue High was more a credit to it than Sydney Bremmer. A motherless boy wholly orphaned by the great fire in San Francisco, he had lived, tramp-like, as a newsboy, till adventuring into the newer opportunities of the City of Green Hills. He had been Billy’s fellow-traveller on the steamer that brought them both from California; and his efforts to make good at each turn of his fortune’s wheel enlisted every one in his favor.

It was Mr. Streeter who, after watching the boy at Camp Going Some the summer before, advised the lad as to night-school work, helped him with his studies, and at length found a good home for him with a woman who lived alone and wished a boy for errands. Here Sydney went, studied early and late, and passed the examinations admitting him to the high school at the beginning of the winter semester. He was a general favorite with his class, and on account of his friendship with Billy and Hector, was well known to the juniors.

As the two boys walked along in the gray evening, an unusual silence fell between them, caused on Billy’s part by a rush of plans for the coming campaign. But Sydney was occupied with Billy’s personal affairs, and puzzled to know how to say certain things he feared Billy would resent.

“Lost your buzzer?” At last Billy waked to the fact that they had walked many blocks without speaking.

“No; but you won’t like my buzz.”

“Try it and see. You’ve a right to say what you please to me, Mumps. Hand it over.”

“It’s about Miss Fisher.”

Billy turned and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you! I’m sick of hearing her called ‘the Fish.’ It’s a positive disgrace, that nickname.”

Sydney’s reply was halting, as if he were feeling his way. “Did you ever reckon it might be partly her own fault?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, they call Miss Carter ‘the Queen’; does that make you sick?”

“That’s different. I began that myself. We always called her that in California,—the Queen of Sheba. But Fish—” He made a gesture of disgust.

“Yet, if the boys called Miss Carter ‘the Cart’ would you feel the same about it?”

“Search me. I don’t get you.”

“It’s this way: Miss Carter is the style of girl that makes any name you give her—well, kind of fine and all right. But with Miss Fisher—”

“Well?”

“It’s up to the girl herself. She’s been in the school nearly four years. She’s two years older than you, and—”

“Two years is nothing,” Billy growled. He was sensitive on that point.

“It’s a lot, Billy. She’s twice as old as you are in knowing things,—some of ’em it would be a whole lot better if she didn’t know. And others she knows—well, she knows ’em just because she’s a girl; and you—you’re only a kid, Billy; not as old as I am in some ways.”

Billy stopped and wheeled. “Say! You’re down on her too. Every one has a black eye for her, it seems.” He walked on, his face averted.

“No, I’m not; but I don’t want to see her get you in trouble, Billy; and that’s what she will, without meaning it, too; because the Kid’s hankering that way, and mighty mad at you.”

“Oh!” With a rush Billy understood some things that had before been enigmatic. “She never cared for Jim,” he said presently.

“Maybe not, but she made him think so. See?”

“I see that we have no business to be talking over any girl in this way.” Billy spoke coldly, and Sydney felt it.

“Billy Bennett, you know I ain’t the kind to harm any girl kid. I wouldn’t talk this over with any living kid but you. But you’re the best friend I got—except Mr. Streeter—and I’m not going to see you—her too—get stung if I can help it. My advice is, go slow there; and you’ll be sorry if you don’t take it.”

They had arrived at the Wright home, where Billy’s sister and brother-in-law, Hal, as well as Mrs. Bennett, always had a warm welcome for Sydney.

There was no time for further confidential speech, for as soon as the new baby, Billy’s nephew, had been duly exhibited, dinner was served; and afterwards both boys had appointments.

Billy went out of his way to accompany Sydney, who was to attend a meeting of his troop down town, the Chetwoots (black bears), the newsboys’ troop of the Boy Scouts. Billy did not wish it known that he was to call on Erminie Fisher, especially after their conversation concerning her.

Ever since a day in early winter when she had caught her foot in a car track and fallen, and Billy that moment passing, had helped her up and back to her home, his calls had grown more and more frequent.

Conditions in his own home made these calls doubly pleasant. The advent of his small nephew had robbed him largely of both his mother and his freedom, for he was rather a noisy boy around the house, and the youngster resented noise. And in place of his mother’s good-night talks, now rare, Billy found a luring substitute in the flattering chatter of the attractive young woman at 745 East Street.

Erminie was beautiful and subtle; beautiful, because she could not help being so; subtle, partly by nature and partly because all her life, by means of wheedling and cajolery, she had adroitly managed—or evaded—her coarse, drinking, but clever father. There were times, however, when no art prevailed against his tyranny. Still she was not bad, but rather the victim of her parentage and environment. She was brilliant, generous, energetic; and when aroused to its need, sincere and faithful.

Her mother was not wise. Her hopes for Erminie were all matrimonial; and her oftenest repeated advice was, “Keep your eye peeled for the chap in the automobile, Sis. It’s money that makes the woman go; and your face is your fortune only when you’re young.”

Into this girl’s sordid life came Billy, clean, young, with high ambitions. Little he dreamed that Erminie’s foot, purposely stuck between the tracks, was as well able as the other to bear her weight during that limping walk home; and not for any bribe would she have confessed; for if the acquaintance began merely as an escapade, it had grown into a friendship which she cherished as the most beautiful thing in her life.

She was looking for him this evening and saw him when he entered the block. Before he could ring she was at the door. “Let’s walk in the park,” she said breathily, closing the door behind her. “Dad—dad and ma are quarrelling, and I can’t bear you to hear them.” She sighed and walked on rapidly, leaving Billy with no alternative but to follow.

He noticed a tone of weariness he had never heard before, for she was the embodiment of high spirits. Also he thought it strange that she should not even greet him. “Is it—is it anything you could tell me about?”

“I ought not, Billy, but I’m going to—I can’t keep it to myself any longer.” She looked up at him, and he saw both anger and defiance in her dark, restless eyes. “My father wants me to quit school and marry an old fellow—a man nearly forty, who’s got the goods—money—and is crazy about me.”

Billy gasped. “Gee!” For a minute he could say no more, and they stood looking at each other till a passer jostled them into moving on.

“But you don’t have to! Girls aren’t like—they aren’t property any more.”

“No; but some fathers think they are.”

“Does your father?”

“Dad wouldn’t put it that way; but you see, Billy, this man who—who wants to marry me—is awfully strong with the city ring, and in some way he has dad cinched. Dad thinks he could make it square by getting him into the family.” Her little half-smile was quite without conceit.

Billy looked at her a moment before replying. Any one seeing her then could have forgiven her a little vanity. The low sun, piercing the clouds for a good-night glance, brought out the rusty reds in her softly waving dark hair, hair that at the roots melted into her creamy skin through a lighter shading that was neither red nor brown, but seemed to have been mixed on Nature’s palette for no other face than hers. Her eyes, usually too shallow and brightly brown, were now deep and misty with an emotion Billy could only guess; while all the loveliness of her gracious face and figure was enhanced by a womanly dignity new to Billy, new to herself, and unrealized.

“I guess ’most any man’d like to get into your family that way.” All the man in him had risen to her beauty; but he was not thinking of himself—not seeing himself in that relation to her. His remark was entirely impersonal.

She smiled, but instantly it changed to a look of pain. She had no measure but that of personality—herself. “Billy! Don’t! Don’t! That’s the sort of thing they all say, and they don’t mean it. I’ve—I’ve liked you awfully just because you never handed out that stuff. If I can’t trust you, there’s—there’s nobody.” There was a little catch in her voice, and she hastened on.

Billy was astonished, puzzled. In their early acquaintance he had felt and resented her coquetry, and very soon interested her in other ways; had established the same sort of comradeship that existed in his earlier boy and girl friendships; but as their acquaintance progressed he found it rich with new experiences.

This girl was no frank child, but a woman, full-grown, delightfully attractive in her wonderful knowledge of things he had not even considered; and alluring in her teasing, half tender, half patronizing manner toward him.

Billy’s own feeling was as perplexing to him. His mother had warned him against the usual “puppy love,” so frank, so ludicrous, that, did not most fathers and mothers have a blushing yet happy remembrance of first-love affairs, they would promptly lock up the younger culprits till the spell wore off.

But Billy’s case was different. Erminie, preeminently the beauty of the school, knew well how to steer an affair safely and in propriety, as when she chose she knew how to make a fellow look “the silliest sort,” in this last art making her largest success with the Kid.

In the park they chose a seat slightly back from the main paths that they might talk freely. Billy had intended to heed Sydney’s warning so far as not to be seen out with Erminie for a few weeks. He knew that turbulent days were coming, and if Jim really cared for her, Billy had no desire to inflame him unnecessarily.

Yet here and now that very thing happened. They were barely seated when he passed them, halted a second, lifted his hat, but was not recognized by Erminie, and passed on with a scowl that Billy understood.

“How was it you didn’t bow to him?”

“I never will, after what he said about you. I heard what happened this afternoon.”

Billy was uneasy. “It doesn’t matter about me, but he’ll get back at you some way. I wish you’d speak to him next time, square it with him.”

“No, I won’t. He can’t speak falsely of my best—of my friends and expect to keep in with me.”

“But—”

“Billy, don’t waste time on him. I’m up against the worst ever, and I want your advice.”

“My advice!” He laughed. Yet what boy is not flattered by such a request from a lovely girl older than himself? “Are you banking on my wisdom? Yours is much greater.”

“Not for what I wish to know, Billy. Tell me about Mr. Alvin Short.”

He faced her quickly. “Alvin Short! I don’t know anything exactly, except that his reputation is as bad as a man’s can be. I get it from my brother Hal.”

“A grafter?”

“Yes, and worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yes. For one thing, he grafts within the law; but those he cinches get it—” Billy lifted an eloquent finger to his neck.

“I was afraid so. That’s where he’s got dad, I’m afraid.”

“Gee! Then he’s—” Billy paused, a great disgust for the man rising, but to be routed by a hot sympathy for the girl. “By gracious! You won’t have anything to do with him, will you?”

“No.” She looked at him earnestly for a moment. “No,” she said again with a hint of fatality in her voice; “but that means that I must run away from home.”

“Run—away—from home?”

“Yes.” She was touched to wistfulness by the thought of what his home must be if no such possible contingent had occurred in his life. “If I don’t, I’ll have to marry Alvin Short; daddy will make me.”

“How can he?”

“Oh, Billy, don’t ask me. Fathers have ways. If Cousin Will were here he could help me.”

“You never told me about him. Did I ever see him?”

“No. He’s not a cousin really. Uncle Henry’s wife was married before, and Will is her son. We were great chums till they moved to Oregon a few years ago.”

Billy looked at her, speculating on the reminiscent light that came into her eyes as she gazed absently off into the west.

“Will was as good as a brother,—better,—he didn’t tease. If he was here he’d not let them make me marry if I didn’t want to.”

“You aren’t old enough to marry!” Billy burst out vehemently.

She smiled faintly. “I’m more than two years older than ma was, and she thinks it would be fine because Alvin—Mr. Short—has so much money.”

“Still she won’t—surely she won’t—” He hesitated, unable to picture a mother who would sacrifice her daughter to such a man. He had seldom seen the tired, frowzy woman who kept out of sight when Erminie had callers.

“Ma always does as dad says. It’s the easiest way to keep peace in the family. Sometimes she spunks up a little, as to-day. Daddy’s generally good to her, though; to me, too, if I do as he wants. But lately he won’t stand for anything from us.”

“What can you do for a living?”

She sighed and drew in her lip. “Nothing well, Billy; but I can learn housework, I suppose.”

“Don’t you know that already?” He thought of his capable mother, of his sister, who was a good housekeeper as well as an accomplished musician.

“No. Ma has always made me save my hands and complexion, study, take music, go to dancing school, and all that, because she was sure I’d marry rich.”

Billy thought hard. Wild notions of succoring this girl, of taking her to his own home, of leaving school and going to work that he might support her, of doing something, anything worthy of a man on whom womanhood calls for help. A dozen equally impossible plans surged through his excited brain; but he could not think of anything definite, practical enough.

“Don’t look so hurt—so angry, Billy. Something will turn up. You’ve told me what I wanted to be sure about, the sort of man Alvin Short is, and—”

“Perhaps some of it isn’t true. I’ll find out exactly.”

“Enough is true to decide me. The man I marry must have a good name, if he hasn’t a dollar.”

“You won’t think about run—about any change right away?”

“No. I guess I can coax dad off—and Mr. Short—till school closes. I want my diploma.”

“Couldn’t you teach?”

“No, Billy, I’m not built that way; but I can scrub if necessary; and I will, before I’ll marry Alvin Short.”

Billy looked at her pretty hands, remembering what melodies they had drawn from the piano on the many evenings he and Erminie had sung together; and his anger rose again.

“We must go back. If dad knows I’ve been out with any one but Mr. Short, he’ll be mad.”

“But I’m just a boy.”

The bitterness in his tone did not escape her. “Don’t fret. You’re plenty big enough and old enough to make dad mad, and Alvin Short jealous.”

She rose and looked into his face as he stood beside her, head and shoulders taller. She could no more help saying and looking the pleasant, flattering thing to those she cared for than she could help breathing. It was part of her charm. She was always looking more than she meant, too, and having to use all her art to escape the results.

Billy gazed down on her with tender eyes, his heart beating faster with a manly, protecting feeling new to him. “Anyway I’m big enough and old enough to do just my level best to make things easy for you. Let me know how I can, won’t you?”

“Yes, Billy, I will. Oh, you’re such a comfort!” And because she was worn out by a stormy interview with her father that she was too proud to repeat, she could not restrain the sob that came with the last word.

That was too much for impressionable Billy. He put his arms around her and kissed her.

Often in fun and frolic he had kissed girls more to tease them than to please himself; but this was very different,—his first man’s kiss; and with its sweetness mingled a quick-born sense of responsibility and the acceptance of a man’s part. He had put himself on record with her; the kiss was the compact.

They walked for blocks in silence, and separated at the end of her street with but a word of good-bye; speech seemed superfluous.

That night Billy went to bed having a secret his mother could not share, for it was Erminie’s rather than his own. Life seemed very portentous, big with duties and prospects that belonged to a new world. All his past was but a flash, a gleam of childish nonsense. Now he was a man!