Aladdin O'Brien Part 7

"It's nothing." He got redder and redder.

"Please."

With downcast eyes he shook his head. She looked at him dubiously and a little pathetically for a moment. Then she said, "Silly goose," and turned to Manners.

"Poor old crow!" said Manners. "I had one, Margaret, when I was little; he had his wings clipped and used to follow me like a dog, and one day he saw some of his old friends out on the salt-marsh, and he hopped out to talk it over with them, and they set upon him and killed him. And I couldn't get there quick enough to help him--I beg your pardon." He picked up a fan and handed it to the girl on his left, and she, having dropped it on purpose, blushed, thanked him, and giggled. Manners turned to Margaret again. "Ever since then," he said, "when I have a gun in my hand and see a crow, I want to kill him for the sake of the crows that killed mine, and to let him go for the sake of mine, who was such a nice old fellow. So it's an awful problem."

Aladdin sat and looked straight before him. "Is real fame as awful as this?" he thought.

Somebody clapped him on the shoulder, and a hearty voice, something the worse for wear, said loudly in his ear, "Bully, Aladdin, bully!"

Aladdin looked up and recognized that bad companion, Beau Larch.

"That's all right," Aladdin tried to say, but Mr. Larch would not be downed.

"Wasn't it bully, Margaret?" he said.

"Oh--hallo--hallo, Beau!" said she, starting and turning round and collecting her wits. "What? Wasn't what bully?"

Aladdin frowned at Larch with all the forbiddingness that he could muster, but Larch was imperturbable.

"Why, Aladdin's song!" he said. "You know, the one about the old crow--the one the man just sang."

Here a young lady, over whom Beau Larch was leaning, confided to her escort in an audible, nervous voice that she knew Beau Larch had been drinking, but she wouldn't say why she knew--anybody could see he had; and then she sniffed with her nose by way of indicating that seeing was not the only or best method of telling.

"You don't mean to say--" said Margaret to Aladdin, and looked him in the eyes. "Why, Aladdin!" she said. And then: "Peter--Peter--'Laddin wrote it, he did. Isn't it gr-reat!"

And Peter, rising to the occasion, said, "Bully," and "I thought it was great," with such absolute frankness and sincerity that Aladdin's heart almost warmed toward him. It was presently known all over the house that Aladdin had written the song. And some of the more clownish of the young people called for Author, Author. Aladdin hung his head.

At supper at the St. Johns' later was a crisp, brisk gentleman with grayish hair, who talked in a pleasant, dry way. Aladdin learned that it was Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p, editor and proprietor of the Portland "Spy." Almost immediately on learning this important item, he saw Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p exchange a word with Margaret and come toward him.

"Mr. O'Brien?"

"Yes, sir."

"The same that sent us three poems a while ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you wrote that song we heard to-night?"

"Yes, sir." Aladdin was now fiery red.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I've just finished school," said Aladdin. "And I don't know what to do."

"Newspaper work appeal to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Timid as a coot," thought Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p.

"Write easily?" he said. "Fast--short words?"

Aladdin thought a moment. "Yes, sir," he said coolly.

"Less timid than a coot," thought Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p.

"Willing to live in Portland?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll give you five dollars a week and give you a trial."

"Thank you, sir."

"Can you get moved and start work Monday?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p smiled cheerfully.

"Pretty entertainment, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, O'Brien, see you Monday; hope we get on." Mr. Blankins.h.i.+p nodded pleasantly and pa.s.sed up the room to the punch, muttering as he went, "Writes better than talks--dash of genius--more or less timid than a coot."

Aladdin went quickly to find Margaret. He traced her to the pantry, where she was hurrying the servant who had charge of the ice-cream.

Aladdin waited until the servant had gone out with a heaping tray.

"Margaret," he said, "I'm going away to live."

He spoke in the flat, colorless voice with which a little child announces that it has hurt itself.

"What do you mean, Aladdin?" She changed color slightly.

"Only that I've got to make a living, Margaret, and it's on a paper, so I ought to be glad."

"Aren't you glad, Aladdin?"

"A little."

"Aladdin--"

"Margaret--O Margaret--"