The Whirligig of Time Part 5

"Poor Harry," thought James, "he's always getting into sc.r.a.pes, and yet I suppose, if everything were known, people would see that he was twice as good as I am, at bottom. I would never have thought of saving that dog; Harry thinks out such funny things to do.... I can generally do the right thing, if it's put directly up to me, but Harry goes out and searches for the right thing to do; I guess that's what it amounts to.

Only, I wish he didn't have to search in such strange places."

As James settled down into his position of mentor to his brother he found out a curious thing; he was fonder of Harry than formerly. The old sense of unconscious, taking-it-for-granted companions.h.i.+p gradually became infused with positive affection which, for the reason that it found little if any outward expression in the daily round of work and play, escaped the notice of everybody except James himself.

"Do you think that doing something for a person would ever make you fonder of that person?" he once asked of his father when they were alone together. "I mean--I should think, that is, that it would work out the other way, so that the person you did the thing for would be fonder of you."

"It's a well known psychological fact," replied his father; "I've often noticed it. If you merely stop a person in the street and ask him the way, or what time it is, you can see his expression change from one of indifference, or even dislike, to interest and cordiality. And if you ever feel that a man, an acquaintance, doesn't like you, ask him to do you some slight service, and he'll admire you intensely from that moment on. And conversely, if you want to make a man your enemy, the best way of going about it is to do something for him.--Why, what made you think of it?"

"Thomas," replied James promptly, being prepared for the question. "He was cross as two sticks the other day when we wanted to build forts in the haymow, but after I asked him to help me put the chain on my bicycle," etc., etc. But James was disturbed by his father's development of the theory. What if his "helping out" Harry should have the effect of making him hate him, James, the very effect of all others he desired to avoid? He resolved to keep his new-found feeling to himself, and give his brother's resentment no foothold; but he could not entirely live it down, for all that. Unconsciously he found fault less with him, unconsciously he would take his part in squabbles with the servants or with his father; and as he noticed no change in Harry's conduct toward him he congratulated himself on his powers of concealment.

But he need have had no worries on the score of Harry's resenting his protection. To Harry, James had always appeared to partake somewhat of the nature of a divinity; if not Apollo or Jupiter, out and out, he was at least Hercules, say, or Theseus. And though, in the very nature of things in general and the fraternal relation in particular, he was obliged outwardly to deny James' superiority in everything and more especially the right to boss younger brothers, he was acutely, almost pathetically, sensitive to James' demeanor toward him and was entirely ready to respond to any increase in good feeling, if James would lead the way.

James, with all his insight and quickness of perception, failed to count upon the fact that Harry would be as slow in making a parade of his feelings as he himself, and was a little surprised that Harry made so slight a demonstration of sorrow when, about a year after their mother's death, James was sent off to school. Harry, indeed, sought to cover his secret conviction that he would really miss his brother very much by repeated harpings upon the blessings that James' presence had ever kept from him, and now, the obstacle being removed, would shower copiously on his deserving, but hitherto officially unrecognized, head. Now he would get the first go at all dishes at table, now he would always sit on the box beside Thomas and drive, now people would see whether he could not be on time for breakfast without his brother's a.s.sistance, and so forth.

James smiled tolerantly at all such talk; he knew that it did not amount to much, though even he failed to realize quite how little.

When the fatal morning came the brothers parted with complete cordiality and every outward expression of mutual contempt.

"Be very careful about putting on your clothes in the morning, kid,"

said James as the train that was to take him off rolled into the station. "You put on your unders.h.i.+rt first, remember, then your s.h.i.+rt and coat. Don't go putting your unders.h.i.+rt over your coat; people might laugh."

"All right, you dear thoughtful boy, I'll try to remember, but I shall be pretty busy hoping that those other kids'll lick the tar out of you, for the first time in your innocent life. You're a good boy at heart, James; all you need is to have the nonsense knocked out of you!"

James' first letter to his brother from school, written some ten days after his departure, is still extant, and may be quoted in full as a doc.u.ment in the story.

St. Barnabas' School.

October 5.

Dear Harry:

I meant to have written you before, but I have been so busy that there was no time. This certainly is a fine place, and I like it a lot already. There are 21 new boys this term, which is fewer than usual, but they say we are an unusually good crowd. We say so, at any rate! There was a big rough-house in our corridor Sat.u.r.day night. A lot of the old boys came down and turned the new fellows after lights were out, and also made them run the gauntlet down the hall, standing at the sides and swatting them with belts and things as they went by. That was much worse than the turning, which did not amount to much. I got turned five times, and Brush, the fellow that rooms with me, six times. That was not much. There was one chap that got turned 22 times that one night. That was Hawley. They call him 'Stink' Hawley already, because he is so dirty looking. They say he has not washed his face since he came. Gosh, I wonder what you will be called when you get here!

"What a filthy lie!" shrieked Harry when he reached this, making up in vehemence what he lacked in coherence. His alleged aversion to the wash-basin was a standing joke in the family, and any reference to it invariably brought a rise.

"Gracious, dear," murmured Aunt Agatha, and smiled.

"Let's hear," said his father, suspending judgment. (The scene took place at the breakfast table.) Harry read the letter aloud up to the point in question, and was relieved to observe an exculpatory smile on his father's lips when he stopped.

"I admit there is an implication in that last remark," said Hilary, "that might prove irritating. However, that's no excuse for making a menagerie of yourself. What else does James say?" Harry read on:

There always is a big rough-house the first two or three Sat.u.r.day nights every year, and after that they keep pretty quiet. They say the masters let them do what they like, almost, those first nights, because they behave better afterwards and it keeps the new boys from being too fresh. That's what I'll be doing to you, you see, next year!

I have been playing football every day, and am trying for the fourth team. Do you remember Roswell Banks, that boy we saw up at Northeast? He is going to make the first team this year, probably. They say he tackles better than any one else here.

Kid Leffingwell also plays a peach of a game, but he won't make the first this year. He is too light, but he has got lots of nerve.

I must stop now, so good-night.

Your affectionate brother, JAMES.

The present writer has no quarrel with any one who is unable to detect in this letter symptoms of any particularly keen brotherly affection. It is his private opinion, however, that such exist there. He thinks, _imprimis_, that James, strange as it may appear, laid himself out to be more agreeable in that letter than he would if he had written it, say, a year previously. It is longer and fuller than James' letters usually were. And--though this may be drawing the point too fine--he thinks that the exclamation point after "that's what I'll be doing to you next year"

would not have been put in under the old regime. An exclamation point does so much toward toning down and softening a disagreeable remark! And for the manner of signature, of course James might have signed himself like that to Harry at any time of his life. Yet the writer, even at the risk of being called super-sensitive, will not ignore the fact that most of James' letters to his brother previous to this date are signed, more casually, "Yours affect'ly," or "Ever yours," or simply "Good-by,--James," and though he realizes that at best the point is not an all-important one, he feels he can do no better than give the reader all the information he has at his command, be it never so trifling, and let him draw conclusions for himself.

CHAPTER V

BABES IN THE WOOD

One Sat.u.r.day morning about a year after James went away to school Harry bounded downstairs for breakfast to find his father just leaving the dining room.

"h.e.l.lo, Father," he said, jumping up and kissing him as usual. "You don't stay in the office this afternoon, do you, Father? Why don't you take Bugs and me to the game? Or you can take us for a ride in the car, if you like; we'll meet you downtown for lunch, so as to save time."

(Bugs was for the moment Harry's _fidus Achates_; a sort of vice-James.)

"You will not, I fear," returned Hilary briefly. "I'm going out of town for the day."

"What, not in the car?"

"In the car."

"_All_ day?"

"All day. Leaving now, as soon as ever the car comes round, and not getting back till late--perhaps not to-night."

"Dash," remarked Harry. "I wish you'd go by train; Graves told me he'd give me a lesson in running the machine the next free Sat.u.r.day."

"Sorry. Next week, perhaps."

"Where are you going, anyway, Father?"

"My business."

"Going to take Graves?"

"No."

"What, all alone? You'll be lonely. Why don't you take Aunt Agatha?"

"No, I shan't be lonely and I'm not going to take Aunt Agatha. I'll tell you what I am going to do, however; I'm going to send you away to school, and that next term. You have a pretty glib tongue in your head, Harry my boy, and I think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will be even better able to appreciate it than I am."

But Harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke.

He became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with his preparations for departure.

"Yes, I'll have a talk with Hodgman about the exams.... There's the car, at last--I must run. Where did I put those water rights, anyway? Oh....

Yes, I think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this term.... Take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if I can arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail, progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat--no, the dark one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?--and a triumphal exit in a motor car. Harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and admiration. Hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled along in his scarlet chariot--they ran a great deal to bright red paint in those early days, if you'll remember--and people would run to catch a glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next meal. But it occurred to Harry that he would complete the picture very nicely, sitting there at his father's side. He wished fervently that he could ever make his father remember that Sat.u.r.day was Sat.u.r.day.

This parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial things and inscribed indelibly on Harry's memory by the fact that it was the last he ever had with his father.

The day pa.s.sed like any other day and at its close the household went to bed as usual, boding no ill. Toward midnight the telephone rang and Aunt Agatha arose and answered it. The voice at the other end introduced itself as Police Headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this was Mr. Wimbourne's house. Yet, it was. Headquarters then expressed a desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls speaking? Aunt Agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would have been called frigid, that this was Miss Fraile.