CHAPTER X. — “AND SHE ALWAYS TRIED.”
Other business was transacted that morning which brought results. A curious habit of Mrs. Roberts',—one which, perhaps, most strongly marked the difference between her ways of working and those of other people,—was that of appealing to the person at hand for information on any subject which chanced to be the one prominent in her mind at the time.
Where other and more systematic persons would have said, “He is not the one to ask about this matter! there is no reason for supposing that he has any knowledge in this direction!” Mrs. Roberts would say: “I cannot be sure that he may not be able to give just the information which I need. In any case, what harm will it do to try?” And she always tried.
It was on this principle that she arrested Dr. Everett's speedy departure with a question:—
“Dr. Everett, are you familiar with boarding-houses for young men?”
Something like a vision swept instantly before the doctor, in which he saw the long line of young men, and the long line of boarding-houses, in the world, and he laughed with eyes and lips, the question seemed so queerly put.
“With how many of them, madam?” There was amusement in his voice, but there was also curiosity,—he wanted to know what this original little lady was in search of.
“One would do, if it were of just the right stamp. I'll tell you what I want,—a nice, quiet, comfortable home sort of place, with a small room, capable of being warmed, a single bedstead, with a passably good bed, and a moderate rate of board. Are not those modest enough requirements?”
“Not at all! They are preposterous! A boarding-house to which one could conveniently apply the word 'home!' Fire in a young man's room! He is expected to enjoy freezing in a city; and if he come from the country, he should be grateful for the privilege! But the idea of calling for a good bed! That is the wildest suggestion of all! Has she ever boarded, Mr. Roberts?”
“Not at a boarding-house, at least,” said that gentleman, enjoying the fun.
But Mrs. Roberts looked grave.
“Are you serious?” she asked, gently. “Is there no chance in this great city for a Christian young man to have the ordinary comforts of common life; just a little quiet room where he can pray, and where he can invite some tempted soul, and try to help him? Doesn't it seem all wrong?”
The laugh was gone from the doctor's face. There was a look of keen interest and genuine respect.
“How many young men are you thinking about? There are many Christians, I believe, among that class,—poor young men, away from home,—and I have reason to fear that their chances for comfortable retirement are very scarce. I have thought about the problem somewhat how to help them. In the concrete, I don't see the way. Of how many are you thinking?”
“I am willing to think about them all,” Mrs. Roberts said,—and now it was her turn to laugh,—“but I am panning for just one. I cannot work in great ways, but I thought I might help one.”
“Exactly! Mr. Roberts, if every Christian in our city would undertake to help one, the problem would be solved. Well, there is one boarding-house to which the word 'home' may properly be applied; and there is one small room on the third floor vacated yesterday. I wonder if the Master wants it for your young man? It seems to me if there is any one thing more than another that we need in that house just now it is a Christian young man. Of what type is your friend? Will he help or hinder a gay young scamp much sought after by Satan?”
“He will try hard to help,” said both Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. And before they parted the doctor had taken Mr. Ried's address, and promised to call on him and negotiate the matter.
“That plan will work in two ways,” said Mrs. Roberts, gleefully. “Mr. Ried will be in the same home with, and somewhat under the influence of that grand doctor. Isn't it splendid that we asked just him?”
And her husband smilingly assented, and added that he should not have thought of such a thing as asking him.
On her way down town, Mrs. Roberts had dropped a letter in the mail, which also brought results. It read thus:—
“DEAR MARION,—I have time for but a line, for I want to catch the morning mail. I have such a nice plan. Suppose you let your Gracie come and stay with me for a few weeks. You know she always liked me a little, and Evan and I think we can make it pleasant for her. I will try to get her so much interested in seven boys whom I know that she will forget all about Professor Ellis. Mr. Barnwell a confidential clerk in the store (old and gray-headed), will go to-morrow to transact some business with papa. Evan will give him a letter of introduction to Dr. Dennis. He expects to return on Saturday, and if you will trust Gracie to us, and she is willing to come, she might travel in Mr. Barnwell's care, and we would meet her at the depot. Dear Marion, we should like it ever so much: and I have prayed about it all the morning, and cannot help thinking that Jesus likes it too.”
Thus it came to pass that when Mrs. Roberts took her seat on the next Sabbath afternoon before her seven boys at the South End Mission, a vision of loveliness, such as the mission had not often seen, came in with her, and looked with wide-open eyes on all the new and strange sights and sounds about her. A very pretty creature was Gracie Dennis. Her eyes had lost none of their brightness, although they had shed some tears during her recent experiences. They were fairly sparkling to-day, for the great city into which she had come for the first time was like fairyland to her; albeit, she had passed through scenes that afternoon which bore no resemblance to her idea of fairyland. What the boys thought of her could only be determined from their stares. Let us hope that her presence had nothing to do with their conduct, for never, in all the annals of the South End Mission, had seven boys comported themselves as did those before whom Mrs. Roberts sat that winter afternoon.
Nimble Dick, as if to be revenged for his unintentional courtesy of the Monday before, placed his ill-kept feet on the seat in front of him, in alarming proximity to Mrs. Roberts' shoulders, and chewed his tobacco, and defiled the floor with its juice, and talked aloud, and was in every sense disgusting. Neither was Dirk Colson one whit behind him. The spirit of entertainment was upon him. He mimicked Mr. Durant's somewhat hoarse tones, exaggerating the imitation, of course, until it was ludicrous. He imitated the somewhat shrill tenor, and the nasal tones of Deacon Carter, who was doing good work with a class of meek-looking women. He even imitated Mrs. Roberts' soft, low voice, as she essayed to interest them in Moses and some of the wonders which he performed.
Vain hope! Struggle as she might to be intensely dramatic in her narrative, she did not for a moment gain the ascendency.
“Moses?” interrupted Nimble Dick in the very midst of one of her most earnest sentences. “Let's see! that was the old fellow who swallowed the serpents, wasn't it? I should have thought he would have been used up.”
“You don't know nothin',” interrupted Stephen Crowley, with a nudge at Dirk that the latter pretended tipped him entirely off the seat, and left him a limp heap at Mrs. Robert' feet.
“He don't know nothin'!” repeated Stephen, addressing Mrs. Roberts in a confidential tone. “'T was the serpents swallowed Moses, wasn't it? Question is, How did he get around again?”
“Quit that!” came at this point from Dirk Colson, in his fiercest tone. “Look here, you Bill Snyder, if you try pinching on me again I'll pitch you over the head of old Durant in less than a second!”
What was the poor, pale little woman to do? With one boy crawling about the floor and two others in a hand-to-hand fight, with the rest in a giggle, of what use to try to talk to them about Moses? You should have seen Gracie Dennis eyes by that time! Horror and disgust were about equally expressed, and rising above them both, a look of actual fear. Mr. Durant came over to attempt a rescue, his face distressed beyond measure.
“Mrs. Roberts, this is too much. I am sure that patience has ceased to be a virtue. They have never gone so far before. I suspected mischief to-day. I have heard from several of them during the week, and never anything but evil. I am prepared for it; there is a full police force on guard in the next room; what I propose is to have every one of these fellows taken to the lock-up. It will be a lesson that they richly deserve, and may do them good.”
Whispering was not one of Mr. Durant's strong points. He meant to convey secret intelligence of carefully-laid plans to Mrs. Roberts alone. In reality not a boy in the class but heard every word. They were startled into silence. “A full police force!” They were not fonder of the lock-up than are most boys who deserve that punishment. They were skilful in escaping the hands of policemen. They had not believed that the South End Mission would resort to any such means. They recognized in the Mission an attempt to do them good; and, without any effort at reasoning it out, they had by tacit consent decided that policemen and lock-ups and Christian effort did not match. They had chuckled much over the stationing of “little Duffer” at the door on guard. Any two of the strong young fellows were a match for him, and in the event of a riot, which they would like no better fun than to help get up, how many choice spirits all about the room would join them if given the word, and in the delightful confusion which would result how easy to escape from sight and hearing while Policeman Duffer was summoning aid! They had felt comparatively safe. But “a full police force” detailed for duty was quite another thing. They felt caught in a trap. Nimble Dick got up in haste from the floor and took his seat, and the boys looked from one to another with ominous frowns. There were reasons why none of them cared to come before the police court just now. What was to be done?
While they waited and considered, Mrs. Roberts did it. Her hand was on Mr. Durant's arm, and directly the loud whispering ceased, she spoke in low, but distinctly emphatic tones:—
“I beg of you, Mr. Durant, do no such thing. I would dismiss every policeman at once, with thanks, if I were you. We shall not need their help. I give you my word of honor that the boys will be quiet during the rest of the session, not because they are afraid of policemen, but because they respect me, and do not want to see me frightened or annoyed. Please don't let a policeman come near us.”
I am not sure which was the more astonished, the superintendent or the boys. He returned to his desk with the bewildered air of one whose deep-laid schemes had come to naught in an unexpected manner without giving him time to rally; and the boys looked at one another in perplexity, and were silent.
Mrs. Roberts turned to them with quiet voice:—
“Boys,” she said, “you have spoiled the story that I was going to tell you. I have lost my place, and there isn't time to go back and find it. I am sorry, for I think you would have liked the story. I spent a good deal of time this week trying to make it interesting. But never mind now, there is something else I want to say. Will you spend the hours from eight to ten with me to-morrow evening at my house? I brought cards with me for each of you, containing my address, that you might have no trouble in finding the place.”
Whereupon she produced the delicate bits of pasteboard, with her name and address handsomely engraved thereon.
Nimble Dick took his between his soiled thumb and finger, turned it over in a pretence of great interest, and finally endeavored to “sight” it with his eye, as a workman does his board.
“What'll you do with us if we come?” Stephen Crowley asked, fixing what was intended as a wise look upon her, the leer in his eye hinting that he was smart enough to see another trap, and meant not to fall into it.
Mrs. Roberts laughed pleasantly.
“It is an unusual question, when one invites company,” she said; “but I don't mind answering it. For one thing I thought we would have an oyster stew and some good coffee together. Then, if any of you like music, I have a friend with me who is a good singer; and I have a few pictures I should like you to see, if you cared to; and—I don't know whether you are fond of flowers, but some of you may have a mother, or sister at home who is, and the greenhouse is all aglow just now. Oh, how can I tell what I should do to entertain guests? Just what seemed to me to be pleasant at the time. That is the way I generally do. May I expect you?”
The boys stared. This was a new departure, indeed! How much of it did she mean? What was she trying to do? Was it a trap? Still she had rescued them from the police force, and they had not expected that, for every boy of them knew that he had treated her shamefully. Timothy Haskell was generally the quietest one of the group, and perhaps the most straightforward. He went directly to the point of the question that he saw in the eyes of the others.
“What do you do it for?”
“Yes, that's the talk,” said Nimble Dick. “What do you want of us?”
“Why, I want you to spend the evening with me. Didn't I tell you? If you really mean to be friends with me of course I must invite you to my home. What could I want except to have a nice time? I'm trying to make you like me. Of course I want you to like me. How can we have pleasant times together unless you do?”
CHAPTER XI. — “I HAVE BUT TO TRY AGAIN”
“Pleasant times like we've been having to-day?” said Nimble Dick, with a wicked leer.
If he meant to disconcert her, he missed his point.
“No!” she said, promptly, “we haven't had a bit nice times to-day, and as for liking you, I haven't done so to-day at all. If I had the least idea that you meant often to treat me as you have this afternoon I should know it was of no use. But I cannot think that you will continue to treat a lady in such a manner, particularly when I am really trying to make a pleasant time for you. There is no object, you see, in spoiling it.”
This plain bit of truth, for the time being so commended itself to the judgment of the boys that they regarded the speaker gravely, without attempting a reply. She was not moralizing; at least it was unlike any moralizing that they had ever heard. It seemed to be simply a bit of practical common sense. Not a boy would have owned it, but each felt, just at that moment, a faint hope that she would not decide it was of no use, and give them up. Straightforward Tim Haskell had one more question to ask:—
“Why didn't you let them bring in their police and settle us?”
Their teacher hesitated just a moment. Would the “whole truth” do to speak in this case? Could she hope to make them understand that she saw in it a step lower down, and that thus degraded before her eyes, she feared her possible hold on them would be gone forever? No; it wouldn't do! A little, a very little piece of the truth was all that she could treat them to. A faint sparkle in her bright eyes, which every one of them saw, and she said:—
“I was afraid you might not be excused in time to keep your engagement with me to-morrow evening.”
They all laughed, not boisterously, actually an appreciative laugh. They were bright; there is hardly a street boy living by his wits who isn't. They recognized the humor hidden in the answer, and enjoyed it.
Then the superintendent's bell rang. That bell always did seem to have an evil influence on those boys. Indeed, Mrs. Roberts was known to remark, a few Sundays afterwards, that if there were no opening and closing exercises in the Sabbath-school, her work would be easier; that street boys did not seem to have one element of devotion in them, and needed to be kept at high pressure, in order to be able to control themselves.
The thought is worthy of study, perhaps. It is just possible that our opening and closing exercises are too long drawn out even for those who are not street boys.
Be that as it may, the little spell which Mrs. Roberts had been able for a few minutes to weave around her boys on this particular Sabbath, was broken by the sound of the bell. The boys returned to their memories of insult, as they regarded the police force. They muttered sullenly among themselves about “traps” and “sells,” and “guessed they wouldn't get caught here again;” and Mrs. Roberts, seeming not to hear, heard with a heavy heart.
How angry they looked! Even Nimble Dick's usually merry face was clouded over. What a curious thing it was that even they had their ideas of propriety, and felt themselves insulted! Was it an instinct, she wondered—a reminder that there was in them material for manhood?
Would they ever, any of them, be men—Christian gentlemen? It seemed almost too great a stretch for even her imagination. As she moved in her seat her delicately-embroidered, perfumed handkerchief fell to the floor. Mrs. Roberts was used to young men—mere boys, even—whose instinctive movement would be to instantly restore it to her. Not a boy before her thought of such a thing. She had not expected it, of course. Yet she wondered if the instinct were not dormant, needing but the suggestion. It was a queer little notion, worthy of Flossy Shipley herself, who, from being continually busy about little things, had come to the conclusion that nothing anywhere was little; that the so-called trifles, which make up many lives, had much to do with the happiness of other lives. Was it worth her while to try to teach these street Arabs to pick up fallen handkerchiefs? She differed from many Christian workers, in that, in her simplicity, she really thought it was.
There was a lull just at that moment. A hymn had been announced, but the organist's note-book had been mislaid, and was being sought after. It could disturb no one if Mrs. Roberts tried her little experiment. She looked longingly at Dirk Colson, but his brows were black and his eyes fierce; this was no time to reach him. Nimble Dick looked much more approachable. She determined to venture him:—
“Mr. Bolton,” spoken in her sweetest voice, “I have dropped my handkerchief.”
“Anybody with half an eye could see that, mum; and a mighty dirty spot you picked out for such a nice little rag to lie in.”
This was her only response. Then the discomfited experimenter told herself that she was a blunderer. How could the poor fellow be expected to know what she meant? Why had she not asked the service from him? She would try again.
Would he be kind enough to pick it up for her? It was long afterwards before Mrs. Roberts could think of his answer without a sinking heart. Fixing bold, saucy eyes on her, he spoke in deliberate tones, loud enough to be heard half-way across the room:—
“Why, pick it up yourself, mum! It is as near to you as it is to me, and you don't look weakly.”
She picked it up, her poor cheeks burning, but she did not forget it.
Various after-school conferences told their different stories.
“Well!” Mr. Durant said, stopping in the act of mopping his hot forehead to shake hands with her, “Mrs. Roberts, I honor your courage. Those boys were simply fearful to-day; I really feared some outbreak that would be hard to quell. I'm afraid we shall have to give them up. Yes, I know how you feel: but you haven't been here to see what we have borne from them. All sorts of teachers have been tried. We have given them the best material we had, both men and women, and every one has failed. Then you actually want to try it for another Sabbath! Well, I'm glad of it. Oh, I don't want to give them up; it makes my heart ache to think of it; but if we can't keep them in sufficient order to get any benefit, nor find a teacher who is willing to hold on to them, what else is there for us to do? But that last complaint I needn't make so long as you 'hold on,' need I?” This last with a genial smile. “Well, God bless you; I couldn't begin to tell you how much I hope you will succeed.”
But his face said: “However, I know you won't.”
He turned from her and said as much to young Ried:—
“She is in earnest, Ried, and she has resources; but she won't catch them, simply because they don't mean to be caught; they come here to make trouble and for nothing else. Just look at the way they have performed to-day—worse than ever, and they never had a better teacher. I've watched her, and I believe she knows how. I'll tell you what it is, Ried, we must hold on to her, and when she gives up those boys we must secure her for that class of girls down by the door. I really think we have a prize.”
Now, if he had but known it, Mrs. Evan Roberts meant to teach no other class at the South End Mission save those boys.
“Flossy Shipley!” This was Gracie Dennis' exclamation; when she was very much excited, she went back to the old name. “What are you trying to do with those horrid boys? and how can you endure their impudence? I never saw anything like their actions in my life, and I thought I had seen bad boys. You look completely worn out, and no wonder. I shouldn't think Mr. Roberts would let you do this. What good can you do such creatures, Flossy?”
“My dear Gracie, don't you think that Jesus Christ died to save them?”
“Well!” said Gracie, hesitatingly. It was a favorite phrase with her, as it is with many people when they don't know what to say next.
“And don't you think he wants them saved? And will he not be pleased with even my little bits of efforts if he knows that my sincere desire is to save these souls for his glory?”
“But what I mean is, what good can you do them so long as they act as they do now? They didn't listen to a word you said, so as to get any good out of it.”
“I don't know that, dear, nor do you. Don't you think the Holy Spirit sometimes presses words on people that they do not seem to be heeding? In any event, that is a part with which I have nothing to do. I tried; and if I failed utterly I have but to try again. It isn't as though there were some good teacher ready to take them. Nobody will make a second effort. Now there is one thing I can certainly do. I can keep on making efforts; who knows but some of them may bear fruit? By the way, Gracie, I want ever so much of your help.”
“Mine?”' said Gracie, with wide-open eyes. “I don't know how to help people; I'm not good.” And her face darkened in a frown,—some unpleasant memories that went far toward proving the truth of that statement coming to mind just then. After a moment she spoke in a somewhat more gentle tone: “Don't count on me, Flossy, for help about those boys. They frighten me; I never saw such fellows. I couldn't help wondering what—papa would have said to them.”
Between the “wondering” and the noun there had been an observable pause. Mrs. Roberts suspected that the thought in Gracie's mind was rather what Mrs. Dennis, who was supposed to have much knowledge of boys, would have thought of them. But since her arrival Gracie had studiously avoided any reference to her stepmother, and Mrs. Roberts had humored her folly.
“Never mind, you can help them; and when you begin to realize that, you will forget your fears.”
“Do you expect to see one of the creatures to-morrow evening? What in the world would you do with them if they did come?”
“I'm not sure that I expect them. I only hope for them. As to what to do with them, I trust to you to help answer that question. I want to give them an idea of what a nice time is.”
“I cannot help,” said Gracie again, but she was interested, and referred again and again to the subject, cross-questioning Mrs. Roberts as to her plans and hopes, until that lady gave a satisfied smile to the thought that her seven boys had begun their work.
The first part of this conversation was held while they waited in one of the class-rooms for Mr. Ried to give in his report before joining them. The waiting suggested to Gracie another question.
“Who is this Mr. Ried, who seems to have us in charge?”
“He is one of the clerks from the store, which accounts, in part, for his attendance on us. But I am interested in him for other reasons. He had a wonderful sister; that is, she was a wonderful Christian; she died when quite young, but one might be ready to go to heaven early if one had accomplished as much as she did. By one of those strange arrangements, which I should think would go far toward making observing people believe in a special Providence, her life, or I might almost say her death, was the means of changing the current of my husband's life. He says he was a gay young fellow; a member of the church, but giving just as little attention to religion as many do whom you and I know. An accident to one of his family held him for several weeks in the town where this Ester Ried lived; and her physician, with whom he became acquainted, introduced him to her. It seems she was very much interested in young men, in their Christian development. He went to see her several times; and, to use his own expression, she first made him realize that there was such a thing as zeal, and then she set it on fire. What she had begun in life she finished in her death. Evan attended her funeral services, and the walls were hung with Bible texts of her selection. The most wonderful texts! All about Christian work, and about being in earnest, because the time was short. Evan says he began to understand, then, that the service of Christ was first, best, and always.
“Wasn't it a singular Providence that led him under the influence of that young girl during the closing weeks of her life? Only think, he has been doing her work ever since,—doing it, possibly, in ways that she could not compass. That is one reason why I am so much interested in those boys. It seems to me as though they were her boys. Did I tell you that her heart went out especially after the neglected? I learned about the boys through Mr. Ried. He was but a child when his sister died, and yet she succeeded in so enthusing him with her ideas that he is all the time trying to carry out her plans. She had some wonderful ones. This idea of inviting the boys, socially, I had from her. Do you see how plainly she is working yet, though she has been in heaven so long?”
“Do you think,” asked Gracie Dennis, a timid, gentle sound to her voice, “that all Christians ought to put religion 'first, best, and always,' as your husband said? I fancied that some were set apart to do a special work.”
“We are all set apart, dear, don't you think? Given to Him to use as He will. The trouble is that so many of us take back the gifts, and use our time and our tongues as though they were our own.”
“Our tongues!” repeated Gracie, amazement in her voice.
“Why, yes; didn't you give Him your tongue when you gave Him yourself? And yet you are fortunate if you have not dishonored Him with it many a time.”
Said Gracie, “What a queer way you have of putting things.”
Then came Alfred Ried in haste, and apologizing for the long delay. Gracie Dennis, watched him curiously; listened critically to his words. Was it to be supposed that this young man put religion “first, best, and always”; and considered his tongue as given to the Lord? Alfred bore the scrutiny well. He took very little notice of Miss Gracie, being entirely absorbed with another matter. He had settled opinions about Mrs. Roberts now, from which he would not be likely to waver. He had seen much of her during the week, and he knew she had not been idle. She had given him much valuable information concerning the boys in whom he had been interested all winter; and whom she had known for a week. Also he was aware that Sally and Mark Calkins had seen much of her, to their great benefit. She had made him her messenger on one occasion, and he had seen Sally Calkins take from the basket the clean, sweet-smelling sheets that were to freshen her brother's bed, and bestow on them rapturous kisses, while she murmured, “I'd walk on my knees in broad daylight through the gutter to serve her,—that I would.”
“Sheets aren't much, I suppose,” moralized the young man, as he walked thoughtfully homeward. “People with much less money than she has must have furnished them. It is thinking about things that makes the difference between her and others.”
But he had not quite found the secret. The main difference between her and many other people lay in the fact that she set steadily about doing the things she thought of that would be nice to do.
On the whole, young Ried was fully prepared to sympathize with Mr. Durant's opinion, that the South End Mission had secured a prize. Not that he was very hopeful over those boys. He felt that their conduct, under the circumstances, showed a depth of depravity which was beyond the reach of Mission schools; but it was a comfort to think that good things were arranged for them if they had but chosen to receive. He began at once to talk about them.
“Mrs. Roberts, they are worse than I had supposed. I am afraid that your patience is exhausted.”
Her answer was peculiar.
“Mr. Ried, I want you to spend to-morrow evening with me. I have invited my boys, and I depend on you and Gracie here to help entertain them.”
“Are you equal to such formidable work as that?” asked Gracie, with a mischievous smile.
He did not respond to the smile; he was looking at Mrs. Roberts, studying her face as one bewildered with the rapidity of her moves.
“I want to be,” he said, with feeling; “I want to know how to work, and I'm learning. Mrs. Roberts, I moved to my new boarding-house last evening, and my room is a perfect little gem. There is an illuminated text in it, and all around it is twined an ivy, growing,—don't you think! Hidden, you know, behind the frame in a bottle; and the text is one of my sister's treasures. Isn't that a singular coincidence?”
“It is very nice,” said Mrs. Roberts, with satisfied eyes. She still made much use of that little word.
“And, Mrs. Roberts, I asked one of your boys to come in this evening and see my room.”
CHAPTER XII. — “I WANT THEM TO GET USED TO PARLORS.”
“Those two people can think and talk of nothing but those dreadful boys,” said Gracie to herself, half annoyed and wholly interested. She found herself that very evening turning over the music, with the wonderment in her mind as to what she could sing that they would be likely to care for, provided one of them appeared, which thing she did not expect.
But I have not told you of all the discussions had that day. The boys went their various ways, their minds also busy with the events of the afternoon. Dirk Colson and Stephen Crowley went off together; not that they were special friends, but their homes lay near together. For the distance of half a block they walked in silence; then Stephen Crowley spoke his mind:—
“Nimble Dick wasn't near as smart to-day as he thinks he was, accordin' to my way of thinkin'.”
“He was meaner than dirt!” burst forth Dirk, fiercely. “To go back on her like that, after she had saved us from a row with the police, ain't what I believe in. Why couldn't he have picked up the rag, seeing she wanted him to? That's what I say. I'd a done it myself if she had give me the chance.”
“That there Dick Bolton can be too mean for anything when he sets out,” said Stephen, with a grave air of superiority. “I don't go in for anything of that kind myself. We wasn't none of us much to boast of; but Dick, he went too fur. I say, Dirk, what do you s'pose all that yarn means about to-morrow night? And what be we goin' to do about it? Dick, he said it was all a game to get hold of us somehow, and he wasn't goin' to have nothin' to do with it.”
Had Stephen Crowley desired exceedingly to secure Dirk's vote in favor to the proposed entertainment he could not, at that moment, have chosen a better way. Dirk tossed his thick mat of black hair in a defiant fashion and answered:—
“He needn't have a thing to do with it, so far as I care. I don't know who'll miss him; but if he thinks he's got all the fellows under his thumb, and they're goin' to do as he says, I'll show him a thing or two. I'm a goin' to-morrow night. I don't care what it is, nor what it is for. She was nice and friendly to us to-day, and I'm willin' to trust her to-morrow. I shall go up there and see what she does want. It can't kill a fellow to do that much.”
“Then I'm a goin', too,” declared Stephen, with decision. “Dick, he thinks there won't none of us go if he don't; and I'd just like to show him that he must get up early in the mornin' if he wants to keep track of us.”
If Dirk Colson needed anything to strengthen his resolution, there was material in that last sentence which supplied it. He had long chafed under the control of Dick Bolton; here was a chance to assert superiority. He even, just at that moment, conceived the brilliant idea of supplanting Dick—running an opposition party, as it were.
What if he should get every fellow in the class to promise to go, and Dick, the acknowledged leader, should find himself left out alone in the cold. The thought actually made his grim face break into a smile. Thus it came to pass that the most efficient worker for the success of the Monday evening entertainment, so far at least as securing the presence of the guests, was Dirk Colson.
In Mr. Roberts' mansion preparations for receiving and entertaining the hoped-for guests went briskly forward. Preparations which astonished the young guest already arrived.
“Are you really going to let them come in here?” she asked, as she followed Mrs. Roberts through the elegant parlors, and watched her putting delicate touches here and there.
“Certainly; why not? Don't you open your parlors when you receive your friends?”
“I don't think we have such peculiar friends on our list,” Gracie said, with a little laugh; and then, “Flossy, they will spoil your furniture.”
“If one evening in the Master's service will spoil anything it surely ought to be spoiled,” Mrs. Roberts answered, serenely.
“But, Flossy,”—with a touch of impatience in her voice,—“what is the use? Wouldn't the dining-room answer every purpose; be to them the most elegant room they ever beheld, and be less likely to suffer from their contact?”
The busy little mistress of all the beauty around her turned to her guest with a peculiar smile on her face, half mischievous and wholly sweet, as she said:—
“I want them to get used to parlors, my dear; they may have much to do with them, as well as with dining-rooms.”
“They are more likely to have to do with penitentiaries and prisons,” Gracie said; but she abandoned discussion, and gave herself to the pleasure of arranging lonely flowers in their lovely vases.
There was a divided house as to the probability of the guests appearing,—Mr. Roberts inclining to the belief that some of them would come, while Gracie was entirely skeptical. Mrs. Roberts kept her own counsel, neither expressing wish nor fear, but steadily pushing her preparations.
As a matter of fact, the entire seven appeared together, promptly, as the clock struck eight.
At the last moment Dick Bolton, the usual leader, finding himself in a minority of one, not to be outwitted, protested that he had not the least notion of staying away; of course he was going, and good-naturedly joined the group.
I wonder if you have the least conception of how those boys looked? The ideas of some people cannot get below nicely-patched clothes, carefully brushed boots, clean collars, and neatly arranged hair.
Clean collars! Not a boy of them owned a collar. No thought of brushing their worn-out, unmended boots ever entered their minds. Their clothes were much patched, but in many places needed it still.
Stephen Crowley had made a somewhat unsuccessful attempt to put his mass of hair in order. Most of the others had not thought even of that. Why should they? Poor Dirk, you will remember, if he had thought of it, had no comb with which to experiment. It is doubtful if many of the others were any better off in this respect.
Imagine the seven standing, a confused, grinning, heap, in the centre of Mrs. Roberts' large and brilliantly-lighted hall!
She came forward to welcome them, shaking hands, though they made no attempt to offer a hand in greeting. She had to grasp after each. She essayed to introduce Gracie; not one of them attempted a bow.
“Come this way,” Mrs. Roberts said, “and take seats.” Then she led the way into the long, bright, elegantly-furnished, flower-decked room.
They followed her in a row. Midway in the room they made a halt. They caught a view of themselves—full length at that—revealed by the great mirrors. They had never seen themselves set in contrast before. They could not sit in a row, for the easy chairs and sofas, though plentiful, had the air of having been just vacated by people who had left them carelessly just where they had chanced to sit.
It required diplomacy to seat those boys. When at last Stephen Crowley dropped into one of the great pillowy chairs, he instantly sprang up again, and looked at it doubtfully.
Was the thing a trap? How far down would it sink with him? This was too much for Nimble Dick, even under the present overpowering circumstances—he laughed. His hostess blessed him for that laugh. The horrible stiffness was somewhat broken, and all were seated.
Just at that moment came Alfred Ried, hurriedly, like one who had intended promptness and missed it.
“All here ahead of me!” he exclaimed, “Mrs. Roberts, I beg your pardon. At the last moment I went in search of Dr. Everett; there was serious illness in a house next door, and I happened to know just where he was.”
During this address he was shaking hands with his hostess, his manner easy and graceful, as one used to it all. Then he crossed the room, that wonderful room, treading down those flowers on the carpet as though he had no fears of breaking their stems.
“Good evening, Miss Dennis,” he said, and he was bowing in a manner that Dirk Colson was confident he could imitate. Then he turned to the boys, shaking hands:—
“How are you, Haskell? By the way, Crowley, I called on you to-day at the office; sorry not to find you in.”
“Mrs. Roberts, allow me?” And he wheeled one of the easy chairs to the spot where that lady was standing.
“How well he enters into the thing,” said Gracie Dennis to herself, looking on in admiration at this young man, who, still so young, was adapting himself to circumstances that might well have embarrassed older heads than his. He plunged into talk with the boys, making them answer questions. He had come but a few moments before from Mark Calkins', stopped there with a message from Dr. Everett; and these boys knew Mark and Sallie and the worthless father, and all the more or less worthless neighbors who ran in and out, and young Ried had a dozen questions to ask. His quick-wittedness, and the ease with which he made talk to these young men who lived in such an utterly different world from himself, surprised his hostess very much.
Even she did not know to what an exalted pitch his enthusiasm and excitement reached; though he had flashed a pair of most appreciative eyes on her when she gave him her invitation for the evening. Here was actually his sister Ester's darling scheme being worked out before his eyes! Not only that, but he was being called upon to help. Ester had wanted him to grow up to undertake just such efforts as these; and only last week they had seemed to him so altogether good and noble and so impossible to try. Yet here he was helping try them! No wonder Alfred Ried could talk.
It had been determined in family council that Mr. Roberts must absent himself. He was in the house, indeed—no further away than the library, ready for call in event of an emergency; but it was judged that another stranger, and such a formidable one as the head of the house, must be avoided for this one evening. As for Mr. Ried, would they remember that he was not much older than some of them, and that he was not a rich young man living on his income, but was earning his living by daily work? and would they note the contrast between themselves and him? This was what their hostess wondered. A few moments and then came a summons to the dining-room. Seated at last, though one of the poor fellows stumbled over a chair, and barely saved himself from falling.
If you could have seen that dining-table, the picture of it would have lingered long in your memory. The whitest and finest of damask table linen; napkins so large that they almost justified Dick Bolton's whisper, “What be you goin' to do with your sheet?” china so delicate that Gracie Dennis could not restrain an inward shiver when any of the clumsy fingers touched a bit of it, and such a glitter of silver as even Gracie had never seen before.
One thing was different from the conventional tea-party. Every servant was banished; none but tender eyes, interested in her experiment, and ready to help it on, should witness the blunders of the boys. So the hostess had decreed, and so instructed Alfred and Gracie. The consequence was that Alfred himself served the steaming oysters with liberal hand, and Gracie presided over jellies and sauces, while Mrs. Roberts sugared and creamed and poured cups of such coffee as those fellows had never even smelled before. If you think they were embarrassed to the degree that they could not eat, you are mistaken.
They were street boys; their lives had been spent in a hardening atmosphere. Directly the first sense of novelty passed away, and their poorly-fed stomachs craved the unusual fare served up for them, the fellows grinned at one another, seized their silver spoons, and dived into the stews in a fashion that would have horrified every servant in the house.
How they ate! Oysters and coffee and pickles and cakes and jellies! There seemed no limit to their capacities; neither did they make the slightest attempt to correct their table manners. None of them paid any outward attention to their “sheets,” although Alfred and Gracie spread theirs with elaborate care; they leaned their elbows on the table, they made loud, swooping sounds with their lips, and, in short, transgressed every law known to civilized life. Why not?
What did they know about civilized life?
Nevertheless, not one movement of young Ried escaped the notice of some of them.
He tried still to carry on a conversation; though the business of eating was being too closely attended to on all sides to let him be very successful.
Gracie studied him, and was not only interested in his efforts, but roused to make some attempts herself. What could she talk about with such people? School? The Literary Club? The last concert? The course of lectures? The last new book that everybody was reading? No, not everybody; assuredly not these seven.
On what ground was she to meet them?
Yet talk she must and would. Mr. Ried should see that she at least wanted to help.