chanted a gay voice.
“Bonny,” exclaimed Margaretta, flying out of her seat.
They were a remarkable pair as they came up the gravel walk together—the tall lad and the tall girl, both light-haired, both blue of eyes, and pink, and white, and smooth as to complexion like a pair of babies.
The elder man stared at them admiringly. Bonny was the baby of the orphan family that the sterling old grandmother had brought up. Strange that the grandson of such a woman had so little character, and Roger sighed slightly. Bonny was a mere boy, thoughtless, fond of fun, and too much of a favourite with the gay lads about the town. However, he might develop, and Roger’s face brightened.
“Oh, you dear Bonny,” said Margaretta, pressing his arm, “it was so good in you to remember your promise to come and tell me about your afternoon on the river. You had a pleasant time, of course.”
“Glorious,” said the lad. “The water was like glass, and we had a regular fleet of canoes. I say, Margaretta, I like that chap from Boston. Do something for him, won’t you?”
“Certainly, Bonny, what do you want me to do?”
“Make him some kind of a water-party.”
Margaretta became troubled. “How many people do you want to invite?”
“Oh, about sixty.”
“Don’t you think if we had three or four of your chosen friends he would enjoy it just as much?”
“No, I don’t; what do you think, Roger?”
“I don’t know about him. I hate crowds myself.”
“I like them,” said Bonny. “Come, Margaretta, decide.”
“Oh, my dear, spoiled boy,” said the girl, in perplexity, “I would give a party to all Riverport if it would please you, but I am trying dreadfully hard to economize. Those large things cost so much.”
Bonny opened wide his big blue eyes. “You are not getting mean, Margaretta?”
“No, no, my heart feels more generous than ever, but I see that this eternal entertaining on a big scale doesn’t amount to much. Once in awhile a huge affair is nice, but to keep it up week after week is a waste of time and energy, and you don’t make real friends.”
“All right,” said Bonny, good-naturedly. “I’ll take him for a swim. That won’t cost anything.”
“Now, Bonny,” said Margaretta, in an injured voice, “don’t misunderstand me. We’ll have a little excursion on the river, if you like, with half a dozen of your friends, and I’ll give you a good big party this summer—you would rather have it later on, wouldn’t you, when there are more girls visiting here?”
“Yes, indeed, let us wait for the girls,” said Bonny.
“And in the meantime,” continued Margaretta, “bring the Boston boy here as often as you like, to drop in to meals. I shall be delighted to see him, and so will you, Roger, won’t you?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the young man, who had gone off into a reverie, “but it’s all right if you say so.”
Bonny laughed at him, then, jumping up, said, “I must be going.”
“Where’s the dog, Margaretta?” asked Roger. “I’ll walk home with the boy.”
“But your headache,” said his wife.
“Is all gone—that prescription cured it,” said the young man, with a meaning glance at the sheet of note-paper clasped in his wife’s hand.
She smiled and waved it at him. “Wives’ cold cash salve for the cure of husbands’ headaches.”
“What kind of a salve is that?” asked Bonny, curiously.
“Wait till you have a house of your own, Bonny,” said his sister, caressingly, “and I will tell you.”
Then, as the man and the boy walked slowly away, she slipped into the hammock and turned her face up to the lovely evening sky.
“Little moon, I call you to witness I have begun a countermarch. I’m never more going to spend all the money I get, even if I have to earn some of it with my own hands!”
Roger, sitting in his office at the iron works, from time to time raised his grave face to look at Bonny, who was fidgeting restlessly about the room.
Next to his wife, Roger loved his young brother-in-law,—the fair-haired, genial lad, everybody’s favourite, no one’s enemy but his own.
He wondered why the boy had come to him. Probably he was in some scrape and wanted help.
Presently the boy flung himself round upon him. “Roger—why don’t some of you good people try to reform me?”
Roger leaned back in his chair and stared at the disturbed young face.
“Come, now, don’t say that you don’t think I need reformation,” said the boy, mockingly.
“I guess we all need that,” replied his brother-in-law, soberly, “but you come of pretty good stock, Bonny.”
“‘WHY DON’T SOME OF YOU GOOD PEOPLE TRY TO REFORM ME?’”
“The stock’s all right. That’s why I’m afraid of breaking loose and disgracing it.”
“What have you been doing?” asked Roger, kindly.
“I haven’t been doing anything,” said the boy, sullenly. “It’s what I may do that I’m afraid of.”
Roger said nothing. He was just casting about in his mind for a suitable reply, when the boy went on. “If you’ve been brought up just like a parson, and had all kinds of sentiments and good thoughts lived at you, and then don’t rise to the goodness you’re bursting with, it’s bound to rebel and give you a bad time.”
The man, having got a clue to the boy’s mental trouble, hastened to say, “You act all right. I shouldn’t say you were unhappy.”
“Act!” repeated the boy. “Act, acting, actors, actresses,—that’s what we all are. Now I’d like to have a good time. I don’t think I’m far out of the way; but there’s Grandma—she just makes me rage. Such goings on!”
“What has your grandmother been doing?”
“She hasn’t done much, and she hasn’t said a word, but, hang it! there’s more in what Grandma doesn’t say than there is in what other women do say.”
“You’re right there, my boy.”
“Now, what did she want to go give me a latch-key for?” asked the boy, in an aggrieved tone, “just after I’d started coming in a little later than usual? Why don’t she say, ‘My dear boy, you are on the road to ruin. Staying out late is the first step. May I not beg of you to do better, my dear young grandson? Otherwise you will bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.’”
“This is what she didn’t say?” asked Roger, gravely.
“This is what she didn’t say,” repeated the boy, crossly, “but this is what she felt. I know her! The latch-key was a bit of tomfoolery. An extra lump of sugar in my coffee is more tomfoolery.”
“Do you want her to preach to you?”
“No,” snarled the handsome lad. “I don’t want her to preach, and I don’t want you to preach, and I don’t want my sisters to preach, but I want some one to do something for me.”
“State your case in a more businesslike way,” said the elder man, gravely. “I don’t understand.”
“You know I’m in the National Bank,” said Bonny, shortly.
“Certainly I know that.”
“Grandma put me there a year ago. I don’t object to the bank, if I’ve got to work. It’s as easy as anything I could get, and I hate study.”
Roger nodded.
“Being in the bank, I’d like to rise,” Bonny went on, irritably, “but somehow or other there seems a little prejudice in the air against me. Has any one said anything to you?”
“Not a word.”
The boy drew a long breath. “Perhaps it’s partly imagination. They’re very down on fun in our bank. Now when hours are over, and I come out, there’s a whole gang of nice fellows ready to do anything that’s going. Sometimes we play billiards. On fine days we’re always on the river. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Not that I see,” observed Roger, cautiously.
“Then, when evening comes, and we want to sit down somewhere, we have a quiet little game of cards. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Do you play for money?”
“Sometimes—well, perhaps nearly always, but there’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Let me hear the rest of your story.”
“Sometimes I’m late getting home. We get interested, but that’s nothing. I’m almost a man. Five hours’ sleep is enough for me.”
A long pause followed, broken finally by Roger, who said, calmly, “You have given an account of your time. What is wrong with it?”
“It’s all wrong,” blurted the boy, “and you know it.”
“I haven’t said so.”
“But you feel it. You’re just like Grandma—bother it! Don’t I know she thinks I ought to spend my evenings at home, reading about banking, so as to work myself up to a president’s chair?”
“Don’t you get any time for reading through the day?”
“How can I?” said the boy, eloquently, “when I was almost brought up out-of-doors, and as soon as the bank closes every square inch of flesh of me is squealing to get on the river. Now what do you think I ought to do?”
“It’s a puzzling case,” said Roger, with a slow shake of his head. “According to your own account, you are leading a blameless life. Yet, according to the same account, you are not happy in it, though no one is finding fault with you.”
“No one finding fault!” said the boy, sulkily. “Why, the very stones in the street stare at me and say, ‘Animal! Animal! you don’t care for anything but fun. You’d skip the bank every day if you dared.’”
“Why don’t you?”
Bonny gave himself a resounding thwack on the chest. “Because,” he said, “Grandma has planted something here that won’t be downed. Something that won’t let me have a good time when I know she isn’t pleased with me. Sometimes I get so mad that I think I will run away, but that wouldn’t do any good, for she’d run with me. She’d haunt my dreams—I don’t know what I’m going to do!”
Roger, carefully concealing all signs of compassion, gazed steadily at the distressed face. “Do you want to break away from your set?” he asked, at last.
“No, I don’t. They’re good fellows.”
“Well, what are you going to do about that bad feeling inside of you?”
“I don’t know,” said Bonny, bitterly. “I know Grandma thinks I’m going to be like Walt Everest, big and fat and jolly, and everybody’s chum, who can sing a song, and dance a jig, and never does any business, and never will amount to anything.”
“Did she ever say so?”
“No,” growled the boy, “but don’t I tell you I know what Grandma’s thinking about?”
“How does your sister Berty take you?” asked Roger.
“Just like Grandma,” blazed the boy, in sudden wrath, “never says a word but a pleasant one, catches me in a corner and kisses me—kisses me!—just think of it!”
Roger thought deeply for a few minutes, while Bonny took up his miserable ramble about the room.
“Look here, boy,” he said, finally. “You do as I tell you for a week. Begin from this minute. Read that magazine, then go home with me to dinner. After dinner come back here and help me. I’m working on some accounts for a time. That will be an excuse to the boys for not playing cards.”
Bonny’s face was clearing. “A good excuse, too,” he muttered. “If I said I was going with Grandma or the girls, they’d laugh at me.”
“You tell them you are working on my books, and I am paying you. That will shut their mouths, and you’ll not object to the extra money.”
“I guess I won’t. I’m hard pushed all the time.”
“Don’t you save anything from your salary for Grandma?” asked Roger, keenly.
“How can I?” said the boy, indignantly. “She has brought me up to be clean. It takes nearly everything I get to pay my laundry bill—I dare say you think I’m a brute to be so selfish.”
“I’ll send you home every night at ten, and mind you go to bed,” said Roger, calmly. “Five hours’ sleep is not enough for a boy of eighteen. Get up in the morning and go to the bank. As soon as it closes in the afternoon I’ll have business in Cloverdale that will take you on a drive there.”
“You’re a daisy, Roger,” said Bonny, in a low voice.
Roger cast down his eyes. That flushed, disturbed face reminded him of his own beautiful Margaretta. Pray Heaven, he would never see such trouble and dissatisfaction in her blue eyes.
Bonny had already thrown himself into a deep leather-covered armchair, and was apparently absorbed in the magazine. Presently he looked up. “Roger, don’t you tell the girls what I’ve been saying.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Nor Grandma.”
“No, nor Grandma.”
But Grandma knew. There was no hoodwinking that dear, shrewd old lady, and when next she met Roger, which was the following morning, as he was on his way to his office, and she was on her way to call on his wife, her deep-set eyes glistened strangely, and instead of saying “Good morning, dear grandson-in-law,” as she usually did, she said “Good morning, dear son.” She considered him as much one of the family as her three beloved orphan grandchildren.
Yes, Grandma knew, and Grandma approved of what he was doing for her poor, wilful, troubled Bonny.
Every evening for five evenings the lad came to the iron works, and steadfastly set his young face to the sober, unexciting examination of dull rows of figures, stretching indefinitely across white pages.
On the fifth night something went wrong with him. In the first place, he was late in coming. In the second place, his nerves seemed to be stretched to their utmost tension.
“What’s up with you?” asked Roger, when, after a few minutes’ work Bonny pushed aside the big books, and said, “I’m going home.”
“I’m tired,” said Bonny. “I hate this bookkeeping.”
“All right,” said his brother-in-law, composedly. “I’m tired myself. Let’s have a game of chess.”
“I hate chess,” said Bonny, sulkily.
“I wonder whether it’s too early for supper?” asked Roger, good-humouredly getting up and going to a closet.
He looked over his shoulder at Bonny as he spoke. Every night at half-past nine he was in the habit of producing cakes, candy, syrup, fruit, and nuts for the boy’s supper. It was not very long since he had been a boy himself, and he remembered his chronic craving for sweet things.
“You’re always stuffing me,” replied Bonny, disagreeably. “You think you’ll make me good-natured.”
“What’s the matter with you, Bonny?” asked Roger, closing the door and returning to his seat.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” snarled Bonny, miserably, rolling his head about on his folded arms resting on the table. “I hate everything and everybody. I could kill you, Roger.”
“All right—there’s a pair of Indian clubs over there in the corner,” said his brother-in-law, cheerfully.
“I thought I’d be an angel after a few nights’ association with you,” continued the lad, “and you make me feel worse than ever.”
“Looks as if I were a bad sort of a fellow, doesn’t it?” remarked Roger, philosophically.
“You’re not bad,” snapped Bonny. “You’re a tremendous good sort. I’m the brute. Roger, why don’t you preach to me?”
For some time Roger stared at him in silence; then he said, “Seems to me you can preach better to yourself. If I were going to set up for a preacher I’d only hold forth to the impenitent.”
“The fellows are going to a dance at Hickey’s to-night,” said Bonny, suddenly pounding on the table with his fist, “and I’m not in it, and then at midnight they’re going to see the circus arrive, and I’m not in that.”
“At Hickey’s—where is that?”
“Up the road; don’t you know?”
“Oh, yes; rather gay people, aren’t they?”
“Well, they’re not in Margaretta’s set; but then she is mighty particular.”
“Would you take her there if she cared to go?”
“No, I wouldn’t—well, go on, Roger.”
“Go on where?” asked the elder man, in slight bewilderment.
“To embrace your opportunity—administer a rebuke—cuff a sinner,” sneered Bonny.
Roger grinned at him.
“My dear boy,” began Bonny, in an exasperated tone, “let me exhort, admonish, and counsel you never to go to any place, or visit any resort, or indulge in any society where you could not take your venerable grandmother and your beloved sisters.”
“Not bad for a beginner,” said Roger, patronizingly.
“I’m going,” said the boy, abruptly jumping up. “I feel as if I should fly in fifty pieces if I stayed here any longer—till I see you again, Roger.”
He was already on the threshold, but Roger sauntered after him. “Hold on a bit—four days ago you came to me in something of a pickle.”
“You bet your iron works I did,” replied Bonny.
“I helped you out of it.”
“I guess you did.”
“For four evenings you have come here and helped me, and I am going to pay you well for it.”
“Glory on your head, you are,” said Bonny, wildly.
“In these four days,” continued Roger, “you have been early at the bank—you have done your work faithfully there. You have not shirked.”
“Not a hair’s breadth, and mighty tired I am of it. I’m sick of reformation. I’m going to be just as bad as I can be. Hurrah for Hickey’s,” and he was just about darting off, when Roger caught him by the arm.
“Listen to me for a minute. I ask you to give me one day more. Stay here with me to-night. Do your work as usual. Go home to bed. Fill in to-morrow properly, then in the evening, at this time, if you want to go back to your old silly tricks, go. I wash my hands of you.”
Bonny turned his face longingly toward the city, thought deeply for a few minutes, then retraced his steps. “I’ll be good to-night,” he said, threateningly, “but just you wait till to-morrow night comes.”
“You’ve got a conscience,” said Roger, sternly; “if you choose to choke it and play the fool, no one is strong enough to hold you—pass me that ledger, will you?”
“Oh, shut up,” blurted Bonny, under his breath. However, he sat down quietly enough, and did his work until the clock struck ten.
Then he stifled a yawn, jumped up, and said, “I’m going now.”
“Mind, seven-thirty to-morrow evening,” said Roger, stiffly.
“All right; seven-thirty for once more, and only once,” said Bonny, with glistening eyes, “for once more and only once! I’m tired of your stuffy old office, and strait-laced ways.”
“Good night,” said Roger, kindly, “and don’t be a fool.”
Bonny ran like a fox down the long lane leading to the city. “He’s making for his burrow,” said Roger, with a weary smile. “He’s a scamp, but you can trust him if he once gives his word. I wish I were a better sort of a man,” and with mingled reverence and humility he lifted his gaze to the stars. “If that boy is going to be saved, something has got to be done mighty quick!”
“What’s the matter, Roger?” asked his wife, when he went home.
“Nothing,” said the young man, wearily, but he went to bed early, and, rising early the next morning, strode off to the iron works without taking his breakfast.
How he loved the handsome lad, his wife’s double. What could he do, what could he say? Until now he had considered the boy inferior in character to his two sisters. But, as he had often assured himself, the stock was good, and the strength and energy latent in Bonny were now looming to the fore. He was emerging from boyhood into manhood, and his childish, happy-go-lucky disposition of youth was warring with the growing forces of more mature age.
The morning wore on, and his gloominess increased, until his father shortly told him that he didn’t look well, and he had better go home.
“I’m all right,” Roger was saying, almost harshly, when there was a ring at his telephone. The National Bank wanted to speak to him.
“Hello,” said Roger.
“Can you come up to the bank?” asked some one, in a jerky voice. “Have had a robbery—young Gravely hurt.”
Roger dashed from his seat, seized his hat, and with a hurried word to his father, rushed outside.
A delivery-cart was standing before the door. He did not stop to see whose it was, but seizing the reins, urged the horse toward the centre of the city.
There was a crowd around the bank, but the cordon of police let him through. Inside was a group of bank officials, reporters, and detectives.
The president’s face was flushed and angry. “Yes we have had a loss,” he said to Roger. “Oh, young Gravely—his grandmother came for him.”
Roger elbowed his way out and took a cab to River Street.
Here it was quiet. The noise of the bank robbery had not reached this neighbourhood. He ran up-stairs three steps at a time to Bonny’s large room in the top of the house, and softly pushed open the door.
Bonny was in bed. Grandma, Berty, a woman of the neighbourhood, and a doctor were bending over him.
Roger could see that the boy’s face was pale and bandaged.
“Bonny,” he said, involuntarily.
The boy heard him and opened his eyes.
“All right, Roger,” he murmured, feebly. “I stood by the fort, but I—guess—you’ll—have—to—excuse—me—to-night,” and his voice trailed off into unconsciousness.
The doctor looked impatiently over his shoulder, and Roger crept out into the hall.
Grandma sent Berty after him. “Oh, Roger,” she whispered, “we had such a fright.”
“What is it—how was it?” asked Roger, eagerly.
“Why, the circus-parade was passing the bank. Every clerk but Bonny left his desk to go look at it. They don’t seem to know why he stayed. When the parade passed, and the clerks went back, he was lying on the floor with his face and head cut.”
“I know why he stayed,” muttered Roger. “He was trying to do his duty. Thank God, he was not killed. Is he much hurt?”
“Some bad flesh wounds. The doctor says he must be kept quiet, but he doesn’t think his brain is injured. Oh, Roger, we are so thankful his life was spared.”
“Probably the thieves didn’t try to kill him. If I can do nothing, I’ll go find out something about the affair. I must telephone Margaretta. She will be upset if she hears from strangers.”
“Yes, go,” said Berty, “and ask her to come to us.”
Late that evening, the doctor, to quiet his feverish patient, permitted him to have five minutes’ conversation with his brother-in-law.
Roger seized the hand lying on the coverlet, and pressed it silently.
“Did they catch the thieves?” asked Bonny, huskily.
“One of them, my boy—how do you think the detectives made sure of him?”
“Don’t know.”
“He was hanging around the circus-crowd, trying to mix up with it—he had some of your yellow hairs on his coat-sleeve.”
Bonny smiled faintly.
“The police expect him to turn State’s evidence,” continued Roger.
“How much did the bank lose?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars.”
“But they’ll get it back, Roger?”
“Yes, if they catch the other fellow, and they’re sure to do it. Bonny, you’re not to talk. Just tell me if this is straight—I want it for the papers. You stood at your desk, all the others ran to the street door. Then—”
“Then,” said Bonny, “I was mad. I wanted to look at the circus, but I had promised you not to shirk. But I just gritted my teeth as I stood there. I was staring after the others when I heard a little noise in the president’s room. I turned round, and saw a man peeping out. I had no revolver, and I didn’t know where Danvers kept his, and like an idiot I never thought to scream. I just grabbed for Buckley’s camera. You know he is a photographic fiend.”
“Yes,” smiled Roger, and he thought of what the captured thief had asked one of the policemen guarding him: “How’s that gritty little demon that tried to snap us?”
“I was just pressing the button,” went on Bonny, “when the man leaped like a cat, and, first thing I knew, he was smashing me over the head with that camera. There was such a row in the street that the others didn’t hear it.”
“Five minutes are up,” said the doctor, coming into the room.
“One minute, Roger,” said the boy, feebly. “I had a second before I got whacked, and in that second I thought, ‘Here’s a specimen of the leisure class toward which I am drifting. I’ll stay with the workers,’ so, Roger, we’ll not call off that contract of ours to-night.”
“All right,” said Roger, beaming on him, and backing toward the door. “It’s to stand—for how long?”
“For ever!” said the boy, with sudden force, just as the doctor gently pushed him back on his pillow, and, putting a teaspoonful of medicine to his lips, said, “Now, young sir, you take this.”
Roger, with a smiling face, sought Grandma and Berty on the veranda at the back of the house. “He’ll be all right in a day or two.”
“Yes, it is the shock that has upset him more than the wounds,” said Berty. “The burglars only wanted to silence him.”
“Grandma, do you know the bank is going to discharge every man-Jack but Bonny?” said Roger.
Grandma’s eyes sparkled, then she became thoughtful.
“What, all those old fellows?” exclaimed Berty.
“Bonny won’t stay,” said Grandma, quietly. “He would feel like a prig.”
“I am going to take him in the iron works with me,” said Roger. “I won’t be denied. He will make a first-class business man.”
“Under your tuition,” said Grandma, with a proud look at him.
“Hush,” said Berty, “the newsboys are calling an extra.”
They all listened. “Extry edeetion Evening Noose—cap-tchure of the second burrgg-lar of the great bank robbery.”
“Good,” cried Berty, “they’ve caught the second man. Roger, dear, go get us a paper.”
The young man ran nimbly down-stairs.
“How he loves Bonny!” said Berty. “What a good brother-in-law!”
Grandma said nothing, but her inscrutable gaze went away down the river.
“And, Grandma,” went on Berty, “let me tell you what Bonny whispered to me before I left the room. He said, ‘I’ve sometimes got mad with Grandma for always harping on keeping the family together, but I see now that if you keep your own family together, you keep your business family together.’”
Grandma did not reply. Her gaze was still down the river, but the girl, watching her lips, saw them softly form the words, “Thank God!”
Bonny’s ordeal was past, and it had better fitted him for other and perhaps more severe ordeals in his life to come.
Mrs. Stanisfield was making her way to her roof-garden.
“If any callers come,” she said to her parlour-maid, “bring them up here.”
Presently there was an exclamation, “What cheer!”
Margaretta looked around. Her irrepressible sister Berty stood in the French window, her dark head thrust forward inquiringly.
“Come out, dear,” said Mrs. Stanisfield, “I am alone.”
“I want to have a talk,” said Berty, coming forward, “and have you anything to eat? I am hungry as a guinea-pig.”
“There is a freezer of ice-cream over there behind those azaleas—the cake is in a covered dish.”
Berty dipped out a saucerful of ice-cream, cut herself a good-sized piece of cake, and then took a low seat near her sister, who was examining her curiously.
“Berty,” said Margaretta, suddenly, “you have something to tell me.”
Berty laughed. “How queer things are. Two months ago we had plenty of money. Then Grandma lost everything. We had to go and live in that old gone-to-seed mansion on River Street—you know what a dirty street it is?”
“Yes, I know—I wish I didn’t.”
“I’m not sorry we went. I’ve had such experiences. I thought I wouldn’t tell you, Margaretta, till all was over. You might worry.”
“What have you been doing?” asked Margaretta, anxiously.
“You remember how the neighbours thought we were missionaries when we first moved to the street?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And when I spoke sharply to a slow workman, an impudent boy called out that the missionary was mad?”
“Yes, I recall it—what neighbours!”
“I shall never forget that first evening,” said Berty, musingly. “Grandma and I were sitting by the fire—so tired after the moving—when a dozen of those half-washed women came edging in with Bibles and hymn-books under their arms.”
“It was detestable,” said Margaretta, with a shrug of her shoulders, “but does it not worry you to repeat all this?”
“No, dearest, I am working up to something. You remember the women informed us in a mousie way that they had come to have a prayer-meeting, and I cuttingly told them that we weren’t ready for callers. Dear Grandma tried to smooth it over by saying that while we had a great respect for religious workers, we did not belong to them, but her salve didn’t cover the wound my tongue had made.”
“What do you mean?” asked Margaretta.
“Here begins the part that is new to you,” said Berty, jubilantly. “To snub one’s neighbours is a dangerous thing. Every tin can and every decrepit vegetable in our yard next morning eloquently proclaimed this truth.”
“You don’t mean to say they had dared—”
“Had dared and done—and our yard had just been so nicely cleaned. Well, I was pretty mad, but I said nothing. Next morning there was more rubbish—I went into the street. There was no policeman in sight, so I went to the city hall. Underneath is a place, you know, where policemen lounge till they have to go on their beats.”
“No, I don’t know. I never was in the city hall in my life. You didn’t go alone, Berty?”
“Yes, I did—why shouldn’t I? I’m a free-born American citizen. Our grandfather was one of the leading men of this city. His taxes helped to build that hall. I’ve a right there, if I want to go.”
“But without a chaperon, and you are so young, and—and—”
“Beautiful.”
“I was going to say pretty,” remarked Margaretta, severely.
“Beautiful is stronger,” said Berty, calmly. “What a lovely view you have from this roof-garden, Margaretta. How it must tranquillize you to gaze at those trees and flower-beds when anything worries you.”
“Do go on, Berty—what did you do at the city hall?”
“A big policeman asked what I wanted. I thought of one of dear grandfather’s sayings, ‘Never deal with subordinates if you can get at principals,’ so I said, ‘I want to see your head man.’”
“That’s an African tribe expression, I think,” murmured Margaretta.
“Evidently, for he grinned and said, ‘Oh, the chief,’ and he opened the door of a private office”.
“Another big man sat like a mountain behind a table. He didn’t get up when I went in—just looked at me.”
“‘Are you over the police of this city?’” I asked.
“‘I am,’ he said.
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve come to apply to you for protection. My neighbours throw tin cans in my back yard every night, and I don’t like it.’
“He grinned from ear to ear, and asked me where I lived.
“‘On River Street,’ I said.
“He gave a whistle and stared at me. I didn’t have on anything remarkable—only a black cloth walking-skirt with a round hat, and that plain-looking white shirt-waist you gave me with the pretty handwork.”
“Which cost forty dollars,” said Margaretta, under her breath.
“Well, that man stared at me,” went on Berty, “and then what do you think he said in an easy tone of voice—‘And what have you been doing to your neighbours, my dear?’
“Margaretta, I was furious. ‘Get up out of your seat,’ I said, in a choking voice. ‘Take that cap off your head, and remember that you are in the presence of a lady. My grandfather was the late Judge Travers of this city, my brother-in-law is Mr. Roger Stanisfield, of the Stanisfield Iron Works, and my great-uncle is governor of the State. I’ll have you put out of office if you say “my dear” to me again.’”
Margaretta held her breath. Berty’s face was flaming at the reminiscence, and her ice-cream was slipping to the floor. “What did he say?” she gasped.
“I wish you could have seen him, Margaretta. He looked like a bumptious old turkey gobbler, knocked all of a heap by a small-sized chicken.
“‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, scuttling out of his seat, ‘I’m sure, Miss, I didn’t dream who you were.’
“‘It isn’t your business to dream,’ I said, still furious. ‘When a woman comes to you with a complaint, treat her civilly. You’re nothing but the paid servant of the city. You don’t own the citizens of Riverport!’
“That finished him. ‘I’m going now,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to sit down. See that you attend to that matter without delay,’ and I stalked out, and he followed me with his mouth open, and if I didn’t know what had happened, I’d say he was standing at that door yet gazing up the street after me.”
“What did happen?” asked Margaretta, eagerly.
“I got my back yard cleaned,” said Berty, drily. “Grandma says two policemen came hurrying up the street before I got home. They went into some of the houses, then women came out, and boys swarmed over our fence, and in an hour there wasn’t the ghost of a tin can left.”
“Think of it,” said Margaretta, “what wretched things for you to be exposed to—what degradation!”
“It isn’t any worse for me than for other women and girls,” said Berty, doggedly, “and I’m going to find out why River Street isn’t treated as well as Grand Avenue.”
“But River Street people are poor, Berty.”
“Suppose they are poor, aren’t they the children of the city?”
“But, Berty—workmen and that sort of people can’t have fine houses, and horses and carriages.”
“Not for horses and carriages, not for fine houses am I pleading, but for equal rights in comfort and decency. Would you take your cold dip every morning if you had to cross a frozen yard in winter, and a filthy yard in summer for every drop of water you use?”
Margaretta shuddered.
“Would you have your house kept clean if it were so dark that you couldn’t see the dirty corners?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Margaretta, decidedly, “but who owns those dreadful places?”
“You do,” said Berty, shortly.
“I do!” said Margaretta, aghast.
“Yes—some of them. Roger holds property down there in your name. All the rich people in the city like to invest in River Street tenements. They’re always packed.”
“I won’t have it,” said Margaretta. “Roger shall sell out.”
“Don’t sell—improve your property, and get some of the stain off your soul. Women should ask their husbands where they invest their money. Good old Mrs. Darlway, the temperance worker, owns a building with a saloon in it.”
“Oh, misery!” exclaimed Margaretta, “she doesn’t know it, of course.”
“No—tell her.”
“How have you found all this out, Berty?”
“I’ve talked to the women.”
“What—the women of the tin can episode?”
“Oh, they’re all over that now—they understand Grandma and me—and what a lot of things they’ve told me. Haven’t you always thought that policemen were noble, kind creatures, like soldiers?”
“Yes,” said Margaretta, innocently, “aren’t they?”
“They’re the most miserable of miserable sinners.”
“Oh, Berty, surely not all!”
“Well, I’ll be generous and leave out half a dozen if it will please you. The others all take bribes.”
“Bribes!”
“Yes, bribes. Did you ever see a lean policeman, Margaretta?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never did—they’re all fat as butter, like the sinners in the Psalms. Now, no one need ever tell me that the police are honest, till I see them all get lean with chasing after evil. Now they just stand round corners like green bay-trees, and take bribes.”
Margaretta was silent for a long time, pondering over this new department of thought opened up to her. Then she said, “Why don’t you get the women to leave this hateful neighbourhood?”
“How can they?” said her sister, mournfully, “their husbands work on the wharves. But I mustn’t make you too gloomy. Let me tell you about the heart of the Mayor.”
“You were dreadfully sad just after you went to River Street,” said Margaretta; “was this the trouble?”
“Yes,” said Berty, lowering her voice, “the woes of the poor were sinking into my heart.”
“Poor child—but take your ice-cream. It is melting and slipping down your gown, and the dog has eaten your cake.”
“Has he?” said Berty, indifferently. “Well, dog, take the ice-cream, too. I want to talk—I came out of our house one morning, Margaretta; there were three pitiful little children on the door-step. ‘Children, do get out of this,’ I said. ‘We may have callers, and you look like imps.’”
“Have you had any more callers?” asked Margaretta, eagerly.
“Yes, the Everests, and Brown-Gardners, and Mrs. Darley-James.”
“Mrs. Darley-James!”
“Yes, Mrs. Darley-James, that fastidious dame. I’ve read that when you get poor, your friends forsake you, but ours have overwhelmed us with attentions.”
“Grandma is an exceptional woman,” said Margaretta, proudly.
“And do you know every one of those women noticed the children. Mrs. Darley-James nearly fainted. I had to go to the door with her, as we have no well-trained maid, but only that stupid woman of the neighbourhood. ‘Why, the children all look ill,’ Mrs. Darley-James said.
“‘A good many of them are,’ I replied. ‘Two died in that yellow house last night.’
“She said, ‘Oh, horrible!’ and got into her carriage. Well, to come back to this day that I stood on the door-step talking to the children. They looked up at me, the dear little impudent things, and said, ‘We ain’t goin’ to move one step, missus, ’cause you gets the sun longer on your side of the street than we does.’
“What they said wasn’t remarkable, but I choked all up. To think of those pale-faced babies manœuvering to sit where they could catch the sun as he peeped shyly at them over the roofs of the tall houses. I felt as if I should like to have the demon of selfishness by the throat and shake him till I choked him. Then I flew to the city hall—”
“The city hall again?” murmured Margaretta.
“Yes—what is the city hall but a place of refuge for the children of the city? I asked to see the Mayor. A young man in the other office said he was busy.”
“‘Then I’ll wait,’ I said, and I sat down.
“He kept me sitting there for a solid hour. You can imagine that I was pretty well annoyed. At the end of that time three fat, prosperous-looking men walked from the inner sanctum, and I was invited to go in.”
“Inside was a smaller, but still prosperous-looking man sitting like a roly-poly behind a desk, and blinking amiably at me with his small eyes.”
Margaretta smiled, and asked, “Young or old?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t know—couldn’t tell his age any more than I could tell the age of a plum-pudding. His face was fat and red, and he had so little hair that it might be either gray or sandy. I’d give him any age between fifteen and fifty.”
“Well, now, I don’t suppose he would be fifteen.”
“He acts like it sometimes,” said Berty, warmly. “Years have not taught him grace and experience, as they have Grandma.”
“What is his name?”
“Jimson—Peter Jimson.”
“Let me see,” murmured Margaretta, “there is a Mrs. Jimson and there are two Misses Jimson who are dying to get into our set. I heard the Everests laughing about them.”
“Same ones, probably—well, he knew enough to stand up when I went in. I said ‘Good morning’ and he looked so amiable that I thought he would give me not only what I wanted, but the whole city besides.
“When we had both sat down, I said, ‘I will not take up your time, sir. I have merely come to ask you to give the children of the East End a park to play in.’
“He lowered his eyes, and began to play with a paper-knife. Then he looked up, and said, ‘May I ask your name?’
“‘My name is Miss Gravely,’ I told him, ‘and I am Mrs. Travers’s granddaughter.’
“‘Oh, indeed,’ he replied, ‘and why are you interested in the children of the East End?’
“‘Because I live there—on River Street. We have lost our money.’
“He looked surprised at the first part of my sentence. I think he knew about the last of it. Then he said, ‘Have the children asked for a park?’
“‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘they haven’t.’
“‘Then why give it to them?’ he inquired, mildly.
“‘Does a good father always wait to have his children demand a necessity before he offers it?’ I replied.
“He smiled, and began to play with the paper-knife again.
“‘The children have nowhere to go, sir,’ I went on. ‘The mothers drive them from the dirty houses, the sailors drive them from the wharves, the truck-men drive them from the streets.’
“‘A park might be a good thing,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but there is no money in the treasury.’
“I felt myself growing hot. ‘No money in the treasury, sir, and you can put up a magnificent building like this? Some of this money has been taken from the children.’
“He said the city had its dignity to maintain.
“‘But there is charity, sir, as well as dignity.’
“He smiled sweetly—his whole attitude was one of indulgent sympathy for a youthful crank, and I began to get more and more stirred up.
“‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I think you must be a stepfather.’
“‘Sometimes step-parents display more wisdom than real parents,’ he said, benevolently.
“I thought of the good stepmother Grandma had when a girl. He was right this time, and I was wrong, but this didn’t make me more comfortable in my mind. ‘There is no need of new pavements on Broadway, sir,’ I blurted out.
“‘We must make the business part of the city attractive,’ he said, ‘or strangers won’t come here.’
“‘Strangers must come,’ I said, bitterly, ‘the children can die.’
“‘There is no place for a park on River Street,’ he went on. ‘Property is held there at a high figure. No one would sell.’
“‘There is Milligan’s Wharf, sir,’ I replied. ‘It is said to be haunted, and no sailors will go there. You could make a lovely fenced-in park.’
“‘But there is no money,’ he said, blandly.
“Something came over me. I wasn’t angry on my own account. I have plenty of fresh air, for I am boating half the time, but dead children’s faces swam before me, and I felt like Isaiah and Jeremiah rolled in one.
“‘Who made you, unkind man?’ I said, pointing a finger at him.
“He wouldn’t tell me, so I told him, ‘God made you, and me, and the little children on River Street. Do you dare to say that you stand higher in His sight than they do?’
“He said no, he wouldn’t, but he was in office to save the city’s money, and he was going to do it.
“‘Let the city deny itself for the children. You know there are things it could do without. If you don’t, the blood of the children will be on your head.’
“He twisted his shoulders, and said, ‘See here, young lady, I’ve been all through this labour and capital business. Labour is unthrifty and brainless. You’re young and extreme, and don’t understand. I’ve done good turns to many a man, and never had a word of thanks.’
“‘Tell me what you like about grown people,’ I said, wildly, ‘I’ll believe anything, but don’t say a word against the children.’
“He twisted his shoulders again, and slyly looked at his watch.
“I got up. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘River Street is choked with dust in summer, and buried in mud and snow in winter. The people have neither decency nor comfort in their houses. The citizens put you over the city, and you are neglecting some of them.’
“He just beamed at me, he was so glad I was going. ‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘you have too much heart. I once had, but for years I’ve been trying to educate it out of myself. I’ve nearly succeeded.’