But he and Mr. Perkins had not stopped at that chapter on Games. From cover to cover Johnnie absorbed the Handbook, reading even the Appendix and the Index! He read the advertisements, too, and came to own a kodak, a junior rifle, a watch, a scout axe, and various other desirable things. But the merit badge he did not own. He meant to earn that, to have it really—not just as a think; for which reason he never lagged in the matter of his meal getting.

Big Tom profited through this determination of Johnnie's. Night after night he had biscuits and gravy. He had apple sauce where formerly Johnnie would have let the longshoreman eat his green apples uncooked. Barber profited, too, in the amount of work Johnnie did every day, promptly and thoroughly, and in those good turns which served to make old Grandpa happier.

Now as Johnnie waited for Cis to return from the area, he pondered on the difference between Big Tom and Mr. Perkins. The latter had often pointed out to Johnnie that it did not cost anything to be either polite or cheerful, and the boy liked being both. Why was Big Tom neither? "Mister Barber, what does 'Birds of a feather flock t'-gether' mean?" he inquired.

Barber had on a white collar and his best coat. His shoes were laced, too. This was the Sunday-morning longshoreman that was the pleasantest to look at. "Where d' y' git hold of such stuff?" was his retort. (Yet Barber smiled as he put on his hat. The boy was coming to time in great shape these days, behaving himself, doing his work, learning to answer a man right. A blind person could see the improvement. Who could say truthfully that he was not raising the boy first-class?)

As the hall door shut behind Barber, Johnnie could scarcely keep himself down in his chair. He wanted to look out of the window to try if he could not see Cis. But he stayed where he was, and twisted away busily. Barber might be at his old tricks; might open the door at any moment. But also, just so many violets must be made of a Sunday, and just that many would be made. A scout is trustworthy.

Yet just so many violets were not to be made, thus proving how uncertain life is. For here came Cis, switching her way in importantly. She was panting. She was flushed. Cautiously she shut the door behind her. "I've been up on Mrs. Kukor's stairs, waiting," she half whispered. Under one arm she was carrying a long, satiny-white box.

"Another doll?" demanded Johnnie, astonished and disappointed. To him any long, white box could mean nothing else. However, he rose, unable to be entirely indifferent even to a new doll.

"Doll!" cried Cis, scornfully. She dropped the box on the table.

Then Johnnie saw that it was not a doll; for out of one end of the box—an end that was open—extended a handful of long, slender, green stems. The gift was flowers, tied, not with common string, but with a flat, green tape which looked fully as expensive as ribbon, and nearly as handsome. "Oh, gee!"—this as he seized the stems, not being able to wait, he was so excited, and tried to draw the flowers from the box. "Oh, Cis, d'y' s'pose these 're from One-Eye? D'y' think maybe One-Eye is back?—Oh, hurry!"

"Wait!"—speaking gently, yet with something of a high-and-mighty air. "Johnnie, you've got One-Eye on the brain." The cord untied, she slipped the cover off the box. Next she swept aside a froth of crisp tissue-paper which was still veiling the gift. Then together they looked down.

"O-o-o-o-h!" It was a chorus.

Roses! Pink roses! A very pile of them, snuggling in the cool, delicate greenery of ferns! Up from them lifted a fragrance that rivaled even that of orris root. Cis leaned to breathe. Next, Johnnie leaned, all but swelling to the bursting point that flat little chest of his to take in the delicious perfume. Thus for a while, and without speaking, they dipped their heads, alternating, to the box.

Presently, Cis lifted the bouquet—almost with reverence. The cups of the flowers were narrow, looked into from directly above, as if each flower had just opened. And, oh, how young each seemed! and how beautiful! When, in all the years since the tenement had been built, had it sheltered such loveliness! Bravely enough the dark, smudgy kitchen, with its scabby walls and its greasy, splintery floor, grew knots of violets. But here were flowers not made by hands: flowers which had come up out of the earth!—yet with a perfectness which was surely not of the earth; certainly not, at any rate, of this particular corner of it situated in the Lower East Side.

"My first roses!" Cis said. Her tone implied that they were not her last.

"They're fine!" pronounced Johnnie, solemnly.

"Fine? They're darling! They're precious! They look as if they'd just come down from Heaven!" Out of the long, white box Cis now took a small, square envelope. She handed it to Johnnie. "Open it, please," she bade, and rather grandly, her air that of one who has been receiving boxes of roses all her life. Then once more she buried that complimented nose among her flowers.

The envelope was not sealed. That was because, Johnnie concluded, there was no letter in it. What it contained was a narrow, stiff card. On the card, written in ink, was "Many happy returns of the day!" This Johnnie read aloud. "But there's no name," he complained. "So how d'y' know these didn't come from One-Eye? I'll just bet they did! I'll——"

"Read the other side," advised Cis calmly. She fell to counting the roses.

Over went the card. "Oh, yes; you're right—Mister Algernon Godfrey Perkins, it says. Gee! but he must've spent a pile of money! And what day's he talkin' about? How can a day return?"

"Your birthday can return—every year, the way Christmas does. To-day is seventeen times my birthday has returned; and there's just seventeen roses here. That's one for each year I've lived." She began to whisper into the buds, touching in turn each pink chalice with her pink lips. "This is the rose for the year I was one, and this is the rose for the year I was two, and this is the rose——"

Johnnie proceeded, boylike, to acquire some intimate and practical knowledge of her gift. He opened one flower a little, carefully spreading its petals. "My! ain't they soft!" he marveled. "Gee! I'd like t' make some 'xac'ly like 'em out o' silk! And, ouch! What's this?"

"This" was a thorn, the first he had ever seen. Learning that the roses had many thorns, he begged hard for one, whereupon Cis broke off for him that particular needlelike growth which was the farthest down on any stem. He received it gratefully on a palm, carried it to the window, and there split it open with a thumb-nail; and having been assured by Cis that it was a safe enough thing to do, he finally put the divided thorn into his mouth and chewed it up. And found it good!

Next, he begged a bit of stem. At first, Cis demurred, arguing that to cut a stem might injure the rose at its top; but was won over when Johnnie pointed out that all of the stems had been already cut once—"and maybe it was good for 'em!" But then the question was, which of the seventeen stems could best spare a bit of its length? This took consideration; also, measuring—with a string. At last the longest stem of all was found. Cis held it tenderly while Johnnie did the cutting. Snip! He got a quarter-inch of the growth. This, also, he split, examined, smelled, and ate. And discovered that it tasted even better than the thorn!

Meanwhile, Cis was parading, her bouquet clasped to her breast. He went over and walked to and fro beside her, studying the flowers. "Those come up out o' the dirt, didn't they?" he mused. "But they're pink and green. And dirt ain't, is it? So how can the roses be like they are? 'R else the ground ought t' be pink on top—that's t' make the flowers—and green 'way down, so's t' grow the stems. And how does the roses know not t' git green up top and pink all up and down? And how——"

"Oh, do hush!" implored Cis. "Don't you see that I'm trying to think? Don't talk aloud, Johnnie, please!"

It was then they heard the stairs creak, and a heavy step in the hall. And thought of Big Tom for the first time—having been too enthralled by the roses, until now, to remember anything else. "Oh, quick!" Johnnie was between Cis and the door of her room. He moved aside to let her pass. "Oh!"—but, being panic-stricken, she stepped in the same direction, so that she stumbled against him. Finding himself again blocking her path, "Hurry!" he urged, and dodged the other way. She also dodged that way. Thus they did a kind of frightened side-to-side dance there in the middle of the kitchen floor—as the door opened and Barber appeared, his coat on his arm.

Face to face, with the roses between them, Cis and Johnnie stayed where they were, as if stricken into helplessness by the sight of the longshoreman, toward him turning their beseeching, anxious look. Each reached blindly to touch the other, for strength and sympathy. And the roses, lifted to the level of their lips, swayed to their hard breathing.

Barber lumbered closer. "What y' got there?" he demanded. He flung his coat from him, to light upon the table, where it covered those other flowers which were of cotton.

"R—roses," faltered Cis, her voice scarcely audible.

Now the longshoreman came to loom over them. "Where 'd y' git 'em?" he asked next, staring at the bouquet almost wildly. ("He'll jerk it," thought Johnnie.)

"You—you remember the—the Mr. Perkins?" Cis began, not taking her eyes from Big Tom's face.

Barber did not "jerk" the roses. Instead, he pointed one of those long arms toward the window. "Walk over there," he commanded, "and pitch 'em out!" His arm stayed outstretched.

Cis tried to speak, made as if to plead, but could only swallow. As for Johnnie, he was petrified, mesmerized, and remained in her path, watching those eyes which were bulging so furiously, while that white flash in the left one darted into sight and disappeared, then came and went again.

"Out!" repeated Barber.

Cis lowered her look to her roses, as if she were seeing them for the last time. Even in the dusk of the kitchen their bright color was reflected upon her face, which, but for the flowers, would have been a ghastly white. A quick catching of the breath, like a sob. Then, her chin sunk among the blossoms, she half-circled Johnnie, and slowly started windowward.

"Git a move on!" Barber spoke low.

At that, she turned, holding the roses toward him. "Oh, Mr. Barber!" she begged. "Don't make me! Don't! The first roses I've ever had! The first! Oh, don't hurt 'em!"

The wheel chair began to swing around. It was curious how quickly a note of dissension could rouse the old soldier from sleep, though with any amount of excitement of the happy kind he napped undisturbed. "Johnnie? Johnnie?" he called. The faded, weak eyes peered about.

Barber acted quickly. With a muttered curse, he lunged across the room to Cis, snarled into her face as he reached her, and wrenched the roses out of her hand. "I'll hurt 'em all right!" he promised savagely.

"Tommie! Tommie!"—it was a joyous cry. The bright flowers had caught Grandpa's eye. "Oh! Oh, Tommie!" Now the chair started in Barber's direction. "Oh, Mother! Oh, go fetch Mother!" He let Letitia drop as he turned at the wheels.

The roses were half way out of the window; Barber drew them back, as if his father's delight in the bouquet had made him change his mind. But he did not give them to Grandpa. Instead, he hid the flowers behind him. "Git the old man some milk," he told Johnnie; and to Cis, "You put on your hat and take these out, and don't you come back with less'n a dollar."

"A—a dollar?" She began to weep. Though she did not yet understand what he meant her to do.

"Yes, a dollar." Barber stayed beside the window, the roses still at his back. "You heard me! Sell 'em."

She turned toward her room. "Sell my birthday present!" she sobbed. "The first bouquet I've ever had! The first!" But instinctively her hands went up to smooth her hair.

That told Johnnie that she was getting ready to put on her hat and obey a wicked command. He fumbled with the milk bottle and a cup, spilling a little of the drink. "All right, Grandpa," he soothed. But his tone was not indicative of his real feelings. Other words were boiling up in him that he did not speak: "I wouldn't sell 'em, y' betcher life! He could go out and sell 'em himself! And I'd tell him so, y' betcher life! And he could lick me if he wanted t'! He could pound me till I died! But I wouldn't mind him!"

Something came driving up into his throat, his eyes, his pale, strained face. It was the blood of hate. It choked and blinded him, sang in his ears, swelled his thin neck, reddened his unfreckled cheeks. Oh, this was more than he could bear, even if he was to be a scout some day! The laws, the good resolutions, the lessons taught by Mr. Perkins, they were not helping him now when this fearful thing was being done. He began a terrible think—of Big Tom down on the floor, helpless, bleeding, begging for mercy, while Johnnie struck his cruel tormentor again and again—trampled him—laughed—shouted——!

Cis came from the tiny blue room. Her head was lowered. The tears were making wet tracks between eyes and pitifully trembling mouth. She walked as far as the table, which checked her, and she halted against it blindly.

"There you are," said Big Tom. He tossed the roses upon his coat. "Go on, now! Hurry! Don't wait round till the old man gits t' fussin'; and"—as she gathered the roses up and made slowly toward the door—"don't do no howlin' on the street, or folks'll think y're crazy."

She halted and turned her tear-stained face toward him. "People will think I'm crazy!" she sobbed. "A girl like me selling flowers on the street of a Sunday morning!"

"Wait!" That had changed his mind. "Give 'em t' Johnnie."

Johnnie went to her. But for a moment he did not take the roses, only looked up, twisting his fingers, and working a big toe. His teeth were set hard. His lips were drawn away from them in a grimace of pure agony. Scouts were brave. Did he dare to be brave? Cis had not held out against the order, and he had blamed her in his heart for her weakness as he vowed to himself that he would rebel. But now—! Could he turn and speak out his defiance? Could he tell Barber that he would not sell the flowers?

The next thing, he had taken the bouquet into his hands. He did not mean to; and he did not look at Cis after he did it, because he could not. His head was bowed like hers now; his heart was bursting. But not solely on account of the roses. He was thinking of himself. He was a little coward—there was no use denying it! Yes, he was as cowardly as a girl! Here he had been given his chance "to face danger in spite of fear," "to stand up for the right"—and he had failed! He understood clearly that this was not the time to be obedient, and that he could not offer obedience as an excuse. No boy should carry out an order to do what was wrong.

"Git along!" It was Big Tom again, fuming over the delay.

Hatless, barefooted, in his flopping, too-big clothes, and with seventeen rosebuds clasped to his old, soiled shirt, Johnnie went slowly out, black shame in his soul.

"I—I couldn't say it!" he mourned. "I wanted t', but it jus' wouldn't come out! I s'pose it's 'cause I ain't a reg'lar scout yet." Going down the stairs, he saw no one, though several of the curious (having learned about the big box that had gone up) saw him. But, strangely enough, they watched him in silence, their speech stayed by the misery in his lowered face and bent shoulders. "After a while I'll be better, maybe," he told himself hopefully. "But now 'bout all I can do, seems like, is keep my teeth clean."



CHAPTER XXIV

FATHER PAT

AN energetic, hot, and dust-laden wind caught at Johnnie as he came out upon the street, whipping strands of his yellow hair into his eyes and about his ears, blowing the fringe at his knees and elbows, billowing the big shirt till his ribs were fanned, and setting to wave gayly all those pink rosebuds and their green leaves.

The wind did more: warm as it was, it calmed his thoughts and steadied his brain, so that he was able to see the whole matter of the birthday bouquet clearly, and reach a new and better decision in regard to the flowers. Now he understood perfectly that in spite of whatever might happen to him when he got home, he could not sell Mr. Perkins's gift. No boy who intended to be a scout could do such a things—then return, even with the large sum of one whole dollar, and expect Cis to speak to him again. And how could he ever bear to admit such a sale to Mr. Perkins? or to One-Eye?

"I'd rather fall down and die!" he vowed. "'Cause it'd show 'em all that I ain't gittin' made over a bit!"

But if he did not dispose of the flowers to some one, as the longshoreman had ordered, what then? Should he turn around and go straight back to the flat—now? He halted for a moment, thinking. To go back would, of course, mean a beating, perhaps with the buckle end of the strap! (A thought that made him shiver as he stood there, on a hot pave, in the summer sun.) Oh, was there not some way by which he could keep the bouquet and yet not suffer punishment? Suppose he gave the roses away? to the first old lady he met? and then reported to Big Tom—with tears!—that a gang of boys had snatched the flowers out of his hands? But that would be telling a lie, and a lie would be as bad, almost, as taking money for Cis's blossoms. No, he would not lie, though not so long ago, before he met the scoutmaster, and read the Handbook, he would not have hesitated; indeed, he would have rejoiced in cheating Barber, and complimented himself on thinking up such a clever story.

Suppose, however, that he were to sell the flowers for a dollar, keep the money, and not return to the flat at all? For a moment this plan seemed such a good one that he started off briskly, his look searching the faces of passersby. Another moment, and he came short again. How could he cut himself off from Mr. Perkins? For if he did, his hope of being a scout, when he was twelve years old, would be gone. Also, there was that wedding; he had set his heart on attending it, and walking the red carpet between lines of envious onlookers. No, this was no time to be leaving the flat.

Then, a splendid idea! And he made up his mind instantly that he would carry it out, so on he started, though more slowly than before. His new plan was this: He would walk, and walk, and walk, enjoying the buds all the while, their delicate fragrance, the silken touch of their petals against his chin. As he walked, he would not look at any one—just at the scenery; so that when he returned home he could truthfully say that he had seen no one even so much as look at the roses. No matter what any stranger might say to him, he would not stop, and then he could declare that nobody had stopped him. Also, should a lady or gentleman hail him, asking to buy, he would not answer, and so he would be able to say that he had not refused to sell.

He would stay out till it was late—till it was dark, and the three at home were grown anxious. Then when he felt sure that Grandpa was abed, back he would go, taking the roses to Cis. He would enter the flat "staggerin', like I can hardly stand up." And mourn over his ill-luck as a salesman. And if he had to take a whipping, "Well, I'll yell as hard's I can" (everybody's window was open these soft June nights) "even if I scare Grandpa a little, and I'll make Big Tom quit quick. And anyhow I'd feel awful for a long time if I done what he wants me to, but a lickin', why, it don't last."

He felt a return of pride and self-respect. On he rambled, looking at the scenery, and particularly at the higher portions of it, this so as to avoid the eyes of passing people. Luckily for his peace of mind, he did not know that cut flowers need water, or that they would wilt, and be less fresh and beautiful than they were now. So, considering the circumstances, his thoughts were cheerful, for while the coming evening might bring him trouble and tears, the future not so immediate promised praise and love and a clear conscience. "By mornin'—by this time t'-morrow, the hurt'll be over," he reflected, and then without regrets he could go in and look at Mr. Roosevelt, could face Aladdin, too, and Galahad, Jim Hawkins, Mr. Lincoln, Daniel Boone and all his other friends. (He had not read and studied that chapter on Chivalry without results!)

Every one stared at the strange little figure in the big, ragged clothes with a sumptuous bouquet of pink rosebuds held so high against his breast, under his folded arms, that only his tousled hair and his gray eyes showed. Some were curious, and swung round as he went by to look after him. Others smiled, for the contrast between the boy and his armful of blossoms was comical. A few looked severe, as if they suspicioned that he had not come by the bouquet honestly. Now and then a boy called to him, or ran alongside. At a corner, two girls caught at one of the buds, missed it, then scampered out of reach, squealing. His chin up, his eyes up, he ignored them all.

On and on he sauntered—west, then north. Perhaps he might go as far as that store where New York bought all of its books. Being Sunday, of course, the store would be closed. But it would be fine to have a look in at the windows. From the book shop he would swing east again, for a glimpse of the horse palace. It might just happen that One-Eye would be back! Oh, if only——!

"Hey there!"

Somehow he knew that the call was at him. And though it was a man who was hailing him, he pretended that he did not hear. But a whistle blew—a police whistle. Instantly he brought up. According to one of those twelve laws in the Handbook, a scout is obedient to "all other duly constituted authorities," and Mr. Perkins had explained that "constituted authorities" is simply a big word way, and a nice way, of saying "cops." Johnnie turned about; and there was the large figure in official blue, from whose gray mustache a whistle was at that moment descending.

The policeman was standing in front of a grocery store. Shoulder to shoulder with him was another man who was even larger—taller, and wider, and thicker through. About this man's dress there was something strange. He had on no tie. Instead, laid neatly below the narrow line of his white collar was a smooth triangle of black.

Johnnie marched straight up to the two. "Yes, sir?" he said to the patrolman. (He would have saluted if he had had a free hand.)

The patrolman stared, open-mouthed. Naturally enough he had jumped to the conclusion, as some others had, that this boy in cast-off clothes had not come by a valuable bouquet through purchase. He had expected that Johnnie, when challenged, would promptly take to his heels. And here——!

The gentleman who had on no tie was also staring in amaze. Externally this boy with the roses was a guttersnipe. But—who in all his life ever before saw a guttersnipe with eyes so lacking in cunning and roguery? eyes, clear, honest, fearless, manly? "And that bright," the gentleman declared, but as if he were talking only to himself, "that ye could fair light a candle at 'em!"

Johnnie guessed that the candle-lighting eyes were his own. His ears moved perceptibly backward and his cheeks lifted in a grin. He was himself looking into a pair that were jolly and keen and kind—and Irish. A soft straw hat shaded them; and short, flaming-red hair, which filled in at either side of the head between hat and ear, served to accentuate the green that tinged their mild gray. Below the eyes was a nose unmistakably pugged. Lower still, a long upper lip gave to a mouth (generous in size) that, smiling, showed itself to be full of dental bridges made entirely of gold.

"Massy gold!" Johnnie reflected admiringly, "like the dishes Aladdin's got." And he made up his mind, then and there, that when he was grown-up, and could afford it, he would have gold bridges.

"And where d' ye think ye're goin' wid th' roses?" inquired the giant in the blue uniform, managing a smile for this rarity among city urchins.

"No 'xact where," replied Johnnie.

"Well, then, little lad, dear," said the other man, "is it lost ye are? or are all those sassy roses just coaxin' ye out into the sun?"

Now here was a thought that appealed! Johnnie's eyes twinkled. "Wouldn't y' both like t' have a smell of 'em?" he asked, and lifted the bouquet temptingly. "I was sent out to sell 'em."

Now witness a stern guardian of the peace, who but a moment ago had in his mind the thought of "landin' a bit of a thief," leaning forward to take a breath of the flowers. "Grand," he agreed. The larger man took off his hat before he bent to inhale. "Dain-tee!" he cried, with an enthusiastic shake of his red head; then to a half-dozen small loiterers who were straining to hear, "There! there! Run along now, children dear! Ye're wanted at the telephone!"

"I'll be tellin' certain folks a few things relatin' t' the sellin' o' this or that on the street," now observed the policeman, vaguely. "Eh, Father Pat?"

"I'll be glad t' go along with ye," returned the other, "and if things 're as bad as they look t' be, then it's Patrick Mungovan that'll do a bit o' rakin'!" He settled the straw hat.

"Just where d' y' live, young man?" asked the policeman.

Johnnie had guessed from the tone of the priest that a "rakin'" was something not altogether pleasant; had concluded, too, that it would fall to the lot of Big Tom. So he gave the address gladly, and as his two new friends stepped forward, was himself ten feet away in a flash, and—going in the wrong direction!

"Here, now! Here!" called the officer after him, at once stern and suspicious. "Don't ye be leadin' me no wild goose chase!" Johnnie having halted, the other came up to him and seized him by one big sleeve. "Ye tell me one thing, and ye start the opp'site! How's that?"

"I guess I don't know where I am," admitted Johnnie. "Y' see, I don't git out much, and so I don't know my way good."

"Now, what could be honester, Clancy?" chided the bigger man. "Shure, ye can see by the color o' his skin that he's a shut-in.—So, now, square about, little flower peddler, but, oh, go easy! easy! That is, if ye want me t' go along, or, shure, big as I am, and fat——"

"Ye're not fat, Father!" denied Clancy. They were all under way now, with Johnnie in the middle.

"Well, solid then," amended the other, breathing hard. "Shure, it's me that cuts up a big piece of cloth when it comes t' clothes, which is deceivin' enough, since I'm back from the war. For what's a man—and never mind his size—if his lungs is gone? or goin'?"

Johnnie turned upward a troubled look. "Did y' git hurt in the war?" he asked.

"Well, maybe ye wouldn't call it hurt, exactly," answered the Father. "Shure, they didn't let out anny of the blood of me, but 'twould've been better, I'm thinkin', if they had. No, lad dear, they sent me over a whiff of the gas, the wind bein' right for the nasty business, and I had the bad taste t' swallow it."

As they fared along, Johnnie kept up a steady chatter in a manner that was obviously friendly and cheerful, this in order to make passersby understand that his return was in the nature of another triumph, and that he had not been arrested. As for his look and carriage, they were those of a proud boy.

By the time his companions had learned how matters stood in the flat, the three had reached the stairs and begun a slow climb. With the caution of his kind, the policeman did not allow Johnnie to lead the way. The latter came second in the procession, the priest toiling last, with much puffing and many a grunt.

The progress of the three being so leisurely, there was time for the inhabitants of the building to hear of the interesting pair that were ascending with Johnnie Smith, and to assemble in groups at the landings, while excited chatter wafted the dust which the visitors raised, and the stairs creaked alarmingly.

When the Barber door was reached, the representative of the law paused—as if waiting for the priest to come up. In reality, standing sidewise, one ear close to a panel, he listened to what was going on inside. As Johnnie, with the bouquet waving against his breast, came to a halt at the official heels, he heard it all, too—a roar of threats and curses, loud stamping to and fro across a squeaking floor, while like a sad accompaniment to a harsh tune there sounded a low, frightened weeping.

Johnnie peered up into the policeman's face. Dark as was the hall, he could see that Mr. Clancy's visage was stern. Father Pat was beside them now, steadying himself by a hand on the rickety banister, while he laid the other upon his breast as if to ease his panting. His look was horrified.

The youngest of that trio rejoiced that Big Tom was acting so badly just at this time. It meant that the "rakin'" would surely happen; and after Father Pat had done his part, Johnnie hoped that the policeman would arrest the longshoreman, drag him away to prison, and perhaps even whack him a time or two with his polished stick.

These possibilities were comforting.



CHAPTER XXV

AN ALLY CROSSES A SWORD

OFFICER CLANCY did not wait even to knock once upon the Barber door, but pushed it open sharply—discovering Big Tom and Cis, face to face on the far side of the kitchen table, the latter with wet cheeks, while her shrinking, wilted young figure was swayed backward out of reach of the huge finger which the longshoreman was shaking before her eyes. Beside her, crouched down in his chair, was old Grandpa, peering out between the folds of his blanket like a frightened kitten.

The interruption halted Big Tom halfway of a stormy sentence, and he turned upon the entering officer a countenance dark and working. (As Father Pat said afterward, "Shure, and 'twas as black as anny colored babe's in Cherry Street!") However, that newly shaved visage lightened instantly, paling at sight of the police-blue and the shield.

The officer spoke first. "This kid belong here?" he asked.

"Lives here," admitted Barber, swallowing.

"I take it ye're not a florist," went on Clancy.

"I ain't."

"Ah! In that case,"—firmly—"ye'll not be sendin' anny boy out on to the street t' sell roses: leastways, not without the proper license, which ye can ask for up at City Hall." Next, the patrolman gave Johnnie a friendly shove toward the middle of the room. "Hand the posies t' yer sister, young man," he commanded.

Johnnie darted to obey, and Cis made a joyous start toward him. Their hands touched, and the roses changed keeper.

Meanwhile Barber had gained back a little of his usual self-confidence. "Oh, all right," he remarked. "But we need money a lot more'n flowers."

"That's as it may be," conceded Clancy, dryly. "But—the law's the law, and I'll just tell ye this much":—he emphasized his statement by pointing the stick—"ye're lucky t' 'scape a fine! Seein' ye're so short o' cash!"

Most men, as Barber liked to boast, did not dare to give the longshoreman any of their "lip." But now he was careful to accept the ultimatum of the officer without a show of temper. "Guess I am," he assented.

Clancy nodded. "And I'll see ye later, Father Pat?" he inquired, giving the priest a meaning glance.

"Please God," replied the Father, settling himself in the morris chair. (He knew when young eyes implored.)

"I'll say good-day t' ye all," went on the policeman. He gave Johnnie a wink and Cis a smile as he went out.

Father Pat now took off his hat. In such cases it was well to "set by" till the storm blew over. "I'm thinkin' I met ye on the docks one day," he observed cordially enough to Big Tom. "'Twas the time there was trouble over the loadin' of the Mary Jane."

Barber was chewing. "Y' had that honor," he returned, a trifle sarcastic.

"Ha-ha!" laughed the Father. But there was a flash of something not too friendly in his look. "Honor, was it? I'm glad ye told me! For meself, shure, I can't always be certain whether 'tis that—or maybe just the opp'site!"

"I can be sure," went on the longshoreman. He sucked his teeth belligerently. "I know when I'm honored, and also when I'm not."

"Is it like that?" retorted Father Pat smoothly. "Then I'll say ye're smarter than I judged ye was from seein' ye put a lad on to the street t' sell flowers of a Sunday mornin'."

To Cis this passage between the men was all pure agony. She dropped down beside Grandpa's chair, and stayed there, half hidden. But it was not misery for Johnnie. He had rightly guessed what the "rakin'" would be, and for whom. And now it was going forward, and he welcomed it.

It was then that it came over him how different was this newest friend from his other two! One-Eye always left Johnnie puzzled as to his real opinion of the longshoreman, this through saying just the opposite of what he meant. Mr. Perkins, on the other hand, did not express himself at all; in fact, almost ignored Barber's existence. But Father Pat! Not even old Grandpa could be in doubt as to how the priest felt toward the longshoreman.

"Oh, don't you worry about this kid," advised Big Tom. "I git mighty little out o' him."

Father Pat stared. Then, bluntly, "Shure, now, don't tell me that! Ye know, I can see his big hands."

Johnnie's hands, at that moment, were hanging in front of him, the fingers knotted. He glanced down at them. He had never thought of them as being large, but now he realized that they were. What was worse, they seemed to be getting bigger and bigger all of a sudden! The way they were swelling made him part them and slip them behind his back.

"When I was a shaver, I didn't have no time t' be a dude!" asserted Big Tom. "And this kid ain't no better'n me!"

"As a man," answered the Father, "shure, and I hope he'll be better than the two o' us put t'gether! Because if the boys and girls don't improve upon the older folks, how is this world t' git better, t' advance?" As he spoke, his look went swiftly round the room.

Barber laughed. "Well, I can tell y' one thing about him," he said. "He won't never make a longshoreman—the little runt!"

At that, Father Pat fairly shot to his feet, and taking a forward step, hung over Big Tom, his green eyes black, his freckled face as crimson as his hair. "Runt is it!" he cried. "Runt! And I'll ask ye why, Mr. Tom Barber? Because ye've kept him shut up in this black place! Because ye've cheated him out o' decent food, and fresh air, and the flirtin' up o' his boy's heels! Does he find time t' play? Has he got friends? Not if ye can help it! Oh, I can read all the little story o' him—the sad, starved, pitiful, lonely, story o' him!"

Barber got up slowly, laying down his pipe. "I guess I know a few things I've done for him," he answered angrily. "And I don't want abuse for them, neither! He's got a lot t' be thankful for!"

"Thankful, yer Grandmother!" raged the Father, but somewhat breathlessly. "I don't want t' hear yer excuses, nor what ye've done! I can see through ye just as if ye was a pane o' glass! It's the carin' for the old man without a penny o' cost that ye've thought about! It's the makin' o' a few flowers for a few cents!"—he pointed to the table—"when the lad ought t' be at his books! Greed's at the bottom o' what ye do—not only workin' the lad too hard for his strength, but cheatin' him out o' his school!"

"I guess that's all," said Barber, quietly. "I'll ask y' t' cut it."

"I'll cut nothin'!" cried the priest. "These five years ye've been waitin' for a man t' come and tell ye the truth. Well, I'm only what's left o' a man, but the truth is on me tongue! And it's comin' off, Tom Barber,—it's comin' off! Shut up another lad like ye've shut him, thrash him, and half starve him in his mind and his body, and see what ye'd get! Ye'd get an idiot, that's what ye'd get! The average lad couldn't stand it! Not the way this boy has! Because why? I'll tell ye: ye've made his home a prison, and ye've dressed him like a beggar, but ye've never been able t' keep his brain and his soul from growin'! Ye've never been able t' lock them up! Nor dress them badly! And God be thanked for it!"

"A-a-a-w!" snarled Barber. "I wish all I had t' do was t' go from flat t' flat and talk sermons!"

"Ye wish that, do ye?" cried the Father, rumpling his red hair from the back of his neck upward. "Well, shure, ye don't know what ye're talkin' about! For there isn't annything harder than talkin' t' folks that haven't the sense or the decency t' do what's right. And also—no rascal pines t' be watched!"

Barber stared. "What's y're grudge?" he demanded.

"A grudge is what I've got!" replied Father Pat. "It's the kind I hold against anny man who mistreats children! And while I live and draw breath, which won't be long, I'll fight that kind o' a man whenever I meet him! And I'll charge him with his sin, so help me God, before the very bar o' Heaven!"

Big Tom shrugged. "Y' ain't a well man," he said; "and then again, y' happen t' be a priest. For both which reasons I don't want no trouble with y'. So I'll be obliged if y'll hire a hall, or find somebody else t' scold, and let up on me for a change. This is Sunday, and I'd like a little rest."

Father Pat went a foot nearer to the longshoreman. "Because I'm a priest," he answered, "I'll not be neglectin' me duty. Ye can drive away scoutmasters, and others that don't feel they've got a right t' tell ye the truth in yer own house, but"—he tapped his chest—"here's one man ye won't drive away!"

Big Tom reached for his pipe and his hat. "Well, stay then!" he returned.

"Stay? That I will!" cried the Father. "The lad and the girl, they've got a friend that's goin' t' stick as long as his lungs'll let him."

"Good!" mocked the longshoreman. "Fine!" He pushed his hat down over the stubble of his hair, and went out, slamming the door.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE END OF A LONG DAY

A LONG moment of breathless silence—while four pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon the hall door, and as many pairs of ears strained to follow the creak and clump of Big Tom's departure. The sound of his steps died away. Another, and a longer, wait, and the door moved and rattled, that signal which marked the opening and shutting of the area door three flights below. The longshoreman was really gone. Cis laid her forehead against an arm of the wheel chair, and burst into tears, clinging to old Grandpa, and trembling, and frightening him into weeping; whereupon Johnnie hurried to them, and alternately patted them comfortingly, and Father Pat came to stand over the three.

"Dear! dear! dear!" exclaimed the priest. "But ain't I glad that I came, though! Shure, the big baboon was ugly! Ha-ha-a-a! And when he's like that, faith, and how he throws the coconuts!"

That fetched the smiles, even from Cis. And, "Oh-ho! Here comes the sun!" cried the Father, beaming joyously at them all. "Shure, we've had the thunderstorm, and the air's clear, and so all the kittens dear can come out o' their corners, and frisk a bit! Faith, I wasn't half as mad as I sounded. No, I wasn't, old gentleman! (And what's that he's holdin' on to? Bless me soul, is it a doll?)" Then having taken up Letitia, and turned her about, and chuckled over her, and given her into Grandpa's outstretched hands again, "It's only that our rampin' Mr. Barber," he explained, "wouldn't understand me if I didn't give him a bit o' the rough edge o' me tongue—no, nor respect me, neither! So I laid it on a mite thick!—Oh, that man! Say, he'd sell the tears right out o' yer eye! Yes, he would! He'd sell yer eyelashes t' make a broom for a fly!"

"Big Tom, he makes me awful 'fraid sometimes," confessed Johnnie. "But he makes Cis lots 'fraider, 'cause she's only a girl."

"A girl!" cried the Father. "And ye think bein' a girl is anny good reason for bein' afraid? Faith, little friend, have ye not got hold o' a wrong notion entirely about girls?" Then seeing that here was an opportunity to take the thoughts of these two harried ones away from themselves, "Children dear," he went on, "all this about girls who are afraid reminds me o' a certain story. 'Twas in Belgium it happened, a few years back, and in the city o' Brussels, which is the capital. Oh, 'tis a grand and a sorrowful story! So! Come now!" He wheeled Grandpa to a place beside the morris chair, signed Cis to take the kitchen chair, helped Johnnie to a perch on the table, and sat again, the others drawn about his red head like so many moths around a cheerful lamp.

It was just as the tale of Edith Cavell ended that, most opportunely, who should come stealing in but Mrs. Kukor, pushing the door open with a slippered foot, for each hand held a dish. The exciting events which had transpired in the Barber flat being common property up and down the area building, naturally she knew them; also, leaned out of her own window, she had heard more than enough. The paleness of her round face told how anxious she was.

The priest stood up. "I'm Father Patrick Mungovan, at yer service, ma'am," he said, bowing gravely.

Mrs. Kukor first wiped both plump hands upon a black sateen apron. Then she extended one of them to the priest. "Glat to meet!" she declared heartily. "Und glat you wass come!"

The Father shook hands warmly. "Shure, ma'am," he declared, "our two young folks is likely not t' suffer for lookin' after from now on, I'm thinkin', what with our little League o' Nations."

Tears welled into Mrs. Kukor's black eyes. "Over Chonnie und Cis," she declared, "all times I wass full of love. Only"—she lifted a short, fat finger—"nefer I haf talk my Hebrew religions mit!"

Father Pat gave her another bow, and a gallant one. "Faith, Mrs. Kukor," said he, "the good Lord I worship was a Hebrew lad from the hills o' Judea."

Next, Mrs. Kukor had a look at the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled with many excited exclamations of delight. After that, there was ice cream and raisin cake, enough for all. Every one served, the priest and Mrs. Kukor were soon chatting away in the friendliest fashion.

It was then that a regrettable accident occurred. In spite of the fact that the ice cream was in a melting condition, and the cake deliciously soft and crumbling, one of those several dental bridges of the Father's suddenly became detached, as it were, from its moorings, and had to be rolled up in one corner of a handkerchief and consigned to a pocket. Amid general condolences then, the priest explained that the happening was not wholly unexpected, since, in choosing a dentist, he had let his heart, rather than his head, guide his selection, and had given the work to an old and struggling man whose methods were undoubtedly obsolete. "But ye see," he concluded, "I knew at the time that the work would far outlast the necessity for it, since I'll not be needin' anny teeth very long"—a statement the full meaning of which fortunately escaped the comprehension of his two young hearers. "But ye might say," he went on, "that neither the cake nor the cream have put a strain on that bridge, so I'll not be blamin' the dentist. For ye see, it's like this: when I've somethin' betwixt me teeth that's substantial, the danger to the bridges is far less. It's when I've nothin' that I do them the most damage, havin' so much grip t' me jaws, and not annything t' work it out on."

Mrs. Kukor now rose to take her leave, explaining how it happened that she did not want to have Mr. Barber discover her there, since, if the longshoreman were to decide that she was interfering in any way—too much—he might, she feared, remove his household to some other, and distant, flat, where she could not be near the children—oy! oy! oy!

Father Pat gave her his address. "Some day," he declared, "ye might be wantin' t' send me a picture post card, in which case ye'd need t' know where I live"—a remark which made Johnnie believe that the Father must be particularly fond of picture post cards! "But now and again, I'll drop in t' see ye," promised the priest, "and t' have a cup o' kosher tea! Shure, ma'am, in anny troublesome matter, two heads is better than one, even if one has been gassed!"

Mrs. Kukor gone, Father Pat began to take thought of his own leaving. But first he set about cheering up his new, young friends, who were subdued, to say the least, this in spite of the refreshments. "Now, shure, and there's things about this place which could be far, far worse," he asserted. "In this shady bit o' flat, ye're shut up, I grant it. But consider what ye're shut away from—ugly things, like fightin' and callin' names"—his argument being intended chiefly for Johnnie.

"And I don't mind about my old clothes," declared the latter stoutly. "Anyhow, I don't mind 'cause they're raggy. All I'm sorry for is that my rags don't fit."

Afterward he concluded that there must have been something rather sensible about this remark of his—something calculated to win approval. For the Father suddenly reached out and took Johnnie into his arms, and gave him a bearish hug, and laughed, and wiped the green eyes (which were brimming), and laughed again, finally falling into a coughing fit that sent Johnnie pell-mell for a cup of water and made Cis wait in concern beside the morris chair.

The cough quieted soon, and again Father Pat was able to talk. "Did ye ever hear another lad like him?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Ah, God love him! He doesn't mind his rags, only he wishes that they fit! Dear, dear, rich, little, poor boy!"

After he was gone, Johnnie and Cis sat in silence for a good while, their young hearts being too full, and their brains too busy, for speech. But at last, "Oh, why didn't we ever know him before!" mourned Cis. "He lives close by, and he's not afraid of anything!"

"He's my friend for life!" vowed Johnnie. "And, oh, Cis, this is who's like Galahad!—not Mister Perkins at all! Mister Perkins is like—like Sir Percival, that's who he's like. But Father Pat (don't y' love the name!) he could sit on the Per'lous Seat, y' betcher life!—Oh, if only his hair wasn't red!"

When she had assured him that red was a most desirable color for hair, since it meant a splendid fighting spirit, he had to know all she could tell him about priests, which was a good deal. "They can marry you, and they can bury you," she began. "And they preach, and pray about a hundred times as much as anybody else, and that's one reason why he's so good. If you've done anything wicked, though, you've got to tell a priest about it, and——"

"I'll tell him about the toothbrush," promised Johnnie. "I won't mind tellin' him, some way or other, anyhow, and it's bothered me, Cis, quite a lot—oh, yes, it has!"

Cis did not mind the Father's knowing about their bargain; provided, however, that she herself be allowed to tell Mr. Perkins. She felt better already in her conscience, she declared, and even sang as she set about rearranging her roses. Each one of these she named with a girl's name, Johnnie assisting; and the two were able, by the curl of a petal, or the number of leaves on a stem, or some other tiny sign, to tell Cora from Alice, and Elaine from Blanchefleur, and the Princess Mary from Buddir al Buddoor, as well as to recognize Rebecca, and Julia, and Anastasia, and Gertie, and June—and so on through a list that made little godmothers to the rosebuds out of Cis's favorite acquaintances at the paper-box factory.

Big Tom had little to say when he returned, but that little was pleasant enough. When he went to bed, he left his door wide. Grandpa had been allowed to stay beside the kitchen window, and there Cis brought a quilt and pillow, her own room being unbearably close and hot. As for Johnnie, quite openly and boldly he shouldered his roll of bedding and took it to the roof! (For after what Father Pat had told them that day, could he, being a boy, fail to do the daring thing? Also, were they not now under the protecting care of a red-headed fighter?)

Arrived on the roof, he did not lie down, but walked to and fro. A far-off band was playing in the summer night, at some pier or in an open space, and its music could be faintly heard. Children were shouting as they returned from the Battery. The grind of street cars came in low waves, not unlike the rhythmic beat of the seas which he had never seen. He shut his ears to every sound. Eastward loomed up the iron network of the bridges, delicate and beautiful against the starlit sky. South, and near by, clustered the masts of scores of ships. North and West were the sky-piercing tops of the city's highest buildings. Sights as well as sounds were softened and glorified by the night, and by distance. But he saw—as he heard—nothing of what was around him. He felt himself lifted high above it all—away from it.

That was because his spirit was uplifted. Just as Big Tom, with his harsh methods, his ignorance, his lack of sympathy and his surly tongue, could bring out any trait that was bad in him, and at the same time plant a few that did not exist, just so could Father Pat, kindly, wise, gentle, gracious and manly, bring out every trait that was good. And for a while at least, the priest had downed and driven out every vestige of hatred and bitterness and revenge from the boy's heart.

Johnnie did not even think of Barber, or what the longshoreman had done that day. In his brain was a picture which thrilled and held him, if at the same time it tortured him—a picture that he saw too keenly, and that would not go away. It was of that brave Englishwoman, face to face with her executioners.

What a story!

He shook his head over it, comparing it with Treasure Island and all the others, and wishing he had it written down, and marveling again over the rare courage of its heroine. To be scolded and whipped was one thing; it was quite another to be stood up against a wall in front of a line of guns. And he remembered that he—a boy—had not been able, this very day, to take even a strapping! What if he had been asked to accept death?

How far away—yes, as if it were days and days ago!—seemed that order of Big Tom's to go out and sell Cis's flowers! That was because this wonderful, heart-moving tragedy of Edith Cavell's had happened in between! As the sky slowly became overcast, and the darkness deepened, he set himself to think the nurse there on the roof beside him—a whiteclad, slender figure.

He had done her a wrong in questioning the bravery of girls, and she had died with her hands tied! "Oh, my!" he breathed apologetically to the picture which his imagination made of her, "if I was only half as brave as you!"

He could keep her there before him not longer than a moment. Then she wavered and went, and he found himself standing beside his blanket roll. Though he covered his eyes to make his pretend more vivid, she would not return.

However, she was to come again one day—to come and sustain him in an hour of dreadful trial that was ahead, though now, mercifully, he did not know it. And there was to be another story, just as thrilling, if not more so, which also would help him in that hour; and, later on, would carry him through darker ones.

With new visions in his brain, and new resolutions in his boy's heart, he took up the bedding bundle and went back to the flat. There he fell asleep in a room where seventeen pink rosebuds spread their perfume.



CHAPTER XXVII

ANOTHER GIFT

NEXT morning it was plain that the roses had brought about certain differences in the flat. Not that there were any blunt orders, or quarrels. Barber did not bring up the subject of Mr. Perkins and his gift; in fact, he did not even address Cis once, though he eyed her covertly now and again. But the good breakfast which Johnnie had risen early to prepare was eaten in a quiet that was strained, as if a storm were about to break. Johnnie could not keep his heart from thumping unpleasantly. And he was limp with relief when, a moment or two after Cis took her departure, the longshoreman went scuffing out.

Then Johnnie's recovery was swift. On waking he had whisked the flowers into Cis's room, guessing that the mere sight of them would annoy Barber. Now he fetched them out, let Grandpa enjoy a whiff of their perfume, poured them fresh water (they held it like so many cups!), and carried them to the window so they might breathe some outdoor air. As it happened, that little girl with the dark hair was sitting on her fire escape. Spying her, Johnnie waved the blossoms at her, receiving in return a flashing smile.

He did not tarry long at the window. A scout does not fail to do a given task; and on this summer day, with the early sky already a hot gray-blue, the task to be done was the washing. Heat or no heat, the boiler had to take its place on the stove. The soapy steam of the cooking drove out the roses's scent of course, but that did not greatly matter so long as, every minute or so, Johnnie was able to turn from his washboard and enjoy their pink beauty.

By eleven o'clock he had the washing on the line. The flat was straightened up, too, and Grandpa was looking his best. About noon, Father Pat, coming slowly up the three flights, heard a series of slam bangings coming from the direction of the Barber flat—also, sharp toot-toots, and heavy chugs. And when the priest opened the hall door and peeped in, a conductor's bell was ding-dinging, while the empty wood box was careening madly in the wake of the wheel chair.

"Ha-ha-a! Johnnie lad!" he hailed. "And, shure, is it a whole battery in action that I'm seein'?"

Johnnie turned a pink and perspiring face which was suddenly all smiles. To the joy of living a fascinating think was now added the joy of finding still another person who was ready to share it. "It's the biggest N'York S'press!" he declared. "And we're takin' our vacation trip!"

"Ah, little pretender!" exclaimed the Father, fondly, and with something like a note of pity. "But, oh, the idea o' me not recognizin' a train! And especially the Twentieth Century Limited when I look her right in the headlight!"

"We been t' the Ad'rondacks," informed Johnnie, "and we got a load o' ice."

"Ah, and that's treasure, truly," agreed the Father, "on this scorchin' day! And ye've put the same into a grand casket, if I'm not mistaken"—indicating the box.

"A casket o' wood."

"But precious, what with coal so high!"

When the priest had settled himself in the morris chair, Johnnie came to lean close to this new friend who was both an understanding and a sympathetic soul. "Want t' hear a secret?" he half whispered.

Father Pat was as mysterious as possible. "Shure, and 'tis me business t' hear secrets," he whispered back. "And what's more, I never tell!"

"Well," confided Johnnie, "there's a lot o' my friends—Jim Hawkins, and Galahad, and Uncas, and, oh, dozens o' others—all just ready t' come in!"

"No-o-o-o!"

"Honest!"

"Galahad, too!—him with the grand scarlet robe, and the chain mail t' the knees, and the locks as bright as yer own! Well, I'm that glad t' hear it! and that excited!"

Breathing a warning, Johnnie sped to the sink, rapped once, then twice, then once again. A short wait, followed by soft pad-pads on the floor overhead. Next down into sight at the window came the basket, filled to the top with books.

At sight of the basket, for some reason Father Pat suddenly seemed anxious; and as Johnnie drew it to the window sill, the priest pried himself up out of the big chair. "Shure, 'tis divvlement!" he pronounced. "Yet still 'tis grand! Only keep 'em all right there, lad dear, and I'll come over t' be introduced."

Proudly and impressively Johnnie proffered first his Aladdin. Nodding delightedly, the Father took it. "Yes, 'tis the very same Aladdin!" he declared. "Ye know, I was afraid maybe the Aladdin I know and this one were two diff'rent gentlemen. But, no!—Oh, in the beginnin' weren't ye afraid, little reader dear, that this friend o' ours would end up wrong? and be lazy and disobedient t' the last, gaddin' the streets when he ought t' be helpin' his mamma?"

"But he turned out fine!" reminded Johnnie.

Now the other precious volumes had their introduction. And, "All bread—rale bread!" said the Father as he looked at them. "Not stones! No!" But he handed them back rather too quickly, according to Johnnie's idea. However, the latter was to know why at once; for with a sharp glance toward the hall door, "Now, who d' ye think was sittin' on a step in front o' the house as I came in—his dinner pail 'twixt his two feet?" asked the priest. "The big ogre himself!"

"Oh!" The pipe rang to Johnnie's hurried knockings, which he repeated in such a panic that Mrs. Kukor could be heard rocking about in excited circles. And it seemed minutes (though it was not half of one) before the basket-strings tightened and the books went jerking up to safety. Then, "My! What if he'd walked in while they was down!" Johnnie exclaimed. "And why didn't he go t' work? What's he waitin' for?"

They had the same explanation at the same moment. Mr. Perkins! So what might not happen, down there in the area, when the longshoreman, lying in wait for his victim, stopped the giver of bouquets?

Something besides the heat of midday made Johnnie feel very weak of a sudden, so that he had to sit down. "Now, shush! shush!" comforted the Father. "Shure, and the ogre'll not be eatin' up anny scoutmaster this day. No, no. There'll be nothin' more than a tongue-lashin', so breathe easy, lad dear!"

"But Mister Perkins won't come any more!" argued Johnnie, plaintively. "And so how'll I finish learnin' t' be a scout? Oh, Father Pat!"

While the next hour went by, it was an anxious little figure that sat opposite the priest, listening, listening—for some loud angry words out of the area, or heavy steps upon the stairs. That entrance below could not be seen from the window. And Johnnie could not bring himself to go down. One o'clock came and passed. But Mr. Perkins did not come. So, undoubtedly, Big Tom had seen the scoutmaster. But whatever had happened, all had been quiet. That was some consolation.

"It's funny about my friends," observed Johnnie at last. He shook a discouraged head. "Some way, I never have more'n one at a time."

The Father set about cheering him up. "Ah-ha, now, and let's not worry a bit more!" he urged. "Shure, and I've climbed up here this day t' ask ye a question, which is: if Father Pat was t' say t' ye that he'd bring ye a new book the next time he chanced by, why, then, little lover o' readin', just what kind o' a book would ye best like t' have?"

Here was something to coax the mind away from concern! "Oh, my!" said Johnnie. "Another book? A new one?" Getting up to think about his answer, he chanced to glance out of the window. And instantly he knew what he should like. "Oh, Father Pat!" he cried. "Has—has anybody ever made up a book about the stars?"

"The stars!" the Father cried back. "Shure, lad dear, certain gentlemen called astronomers have been writin' about the stars for hundreds o' years. And they've named the whole lot! And weighed and measured 'em, Johnnie,—think o' the impudence o' that! Yes, and they've weighed the Sun, and taken the measure o' the Moon! Also, there's the comets, which're called after the men who first find 'em. And, oh, think what it's like t' have yer name tied t' the tail o' a comet for a million years! Ho-ho! ho-ho! That's an honor! Ye never own the comet, still 'tis yours!"

"My! I'd like t' find a Johnnie Smith comet!" declared Johnnie. "And after all"—solemnly—"I think I won't try t' be President; nope, I'll be a 'stronomer."

"Faith," rejoined the Father, the green eyes shining roguishly, "and there's points o' resemblance 'twixt the two callin's. Both o' them, if I ain't mistaken, are calculated t' keep a conscientious man awake o' nights!"

"I'll be awful glad t' have a star-book," decided Johnnie. "Thank y' for it."

The priest smiled fondly at the ragged little figure silhouetted against the window. "Shure, and that's the book I'll be buying for ye," he promised. "And in the crack o' a hen's thumb!"

The Father ended his visit to the building by going upstairs, which fact Johnnie knew because of the walking around he could hear overhead, and the chair scrapings. But before Father Pat left the Barber flat Johnnie told him about going up on the roof (though he did not confess that Cis knew about it, or that he had bought her silence with the toothbrush). His new friend listened without a word of blame, only looking a trifle grave. "And what do ye think ye ought t' do for Madam, the janitress?" he asked when Johnnie had finished his admission. "For as I see it, she's the one entitled t' complain."

"I'll tell y'," answered Johnnie, earnestly; "I've swept off the roof twice, good's I could, and I've swept the stairs that go up t' the roof. And once I swept this hall."

"A true scout!" pronounced the Father. "And I'm not doubtin' that if ye'd promise t' go on doin' the same, Madam'd be glad t' let ye go up. Suppose ye try the suggestion."

Johnnie promised to try.

Late that afternoon the saddest thing happened: the roses died. They had been looking sick, and not at all like themselves, since before noontime. As Johnnie, preparing to set his supper table, lifted the quart milk bottle which held the bouquet, intending again to place it on Cis's dressing-box, the flowers, with a sound that was almost like a soft sigh, showered their crumpling petals upon the oilcloth. Shocked, Johnnie set the bottle quickly down. But only seventeen bare stalks were left in it. The last sweet leaf had dropped.

He stood for a little looking down. The first shock past, his whole being became alive with protest. Oh, why should beautiful flowers ever have to die? It was wrong! And there swept over him the hated realization that an end comes to things. He could have wept then, but he knew that scout boys do not give way to tears. For the first time in his life he was understanding something of life's prime tragedy—change. Girls grow up, dolls go out of favor, roses fade.

He could not bear to throw the petals away. Very gently he gathered them up in his two hands and put them into a shallow crockery dish, and sprinkled them with a little cool water. "Gee! What'll Cis say when she sees them!" he faltered. (How live and sturdy they had seemed such a little while ago!)

"Cis," he told her sadly when she came in (just a moment before Big Tom returned from work), "Blanchfleur, and Cora, and Elaine, and Gertie, and all—they fell t' pieces!"

She was not cast down by the news or the sight of the bowl. She had, she said, expected it, the weather being warm and the flat hot. After that, so far as he could see, she did not give the flowers another thought. When he told her that Father Pat had discovered the longshoreman waiting for Mr. Perkins in the area, she was not surprised or concerned. In the usual evening manner, she brushed and freshened and pressed, smiling as she worked. She seemed entirely to have forgotten all the unhappy hours of the day before. True, she started if Barber spoke to her, and her quaint face flushed. But that was all.

"Clear grown-up!" Johnnie told himself as he put the petals out of sight on a cupboard shelf, laying the stems beside them.

"Everything's going to be all right," she assured him when she told him good night, "now that we've got Father Mungovan." (So that was why she was so happy! Or was it because she was engaged? Johnnie wondered.)

In the days that followed Father Pat became a familiar figure in and about the area building. (And this was fortunate for Johnnie, since Mr. Perkins's visits had suddenly come to an end.) Almost at any hour the priest might be seen slowly crossing the brick pavement, or more slowly climbing the stairs on his way to the Barber flat. When he was not at Johnnie's, reading aloud out of the book on astronomy while Johnnie threaded beads, he might be found overhead in Mrs. Kukor's bright kitchen, resting in a rocker, a cup of tea nursed in both hands, and holding long, confidential and (to Johnnie) mysterious conversations, which the latter wished so much he might share, though he always discouraged the wish, understanding that it was not at all polite to want to be where he was not invited.

He and the priest, of course, had their own lengthy and delightful talks. Sometimes it would be Johnnie who would have the most to say. Perhaps he would tell Father Pat about one of his thinks: a vision, say, of high roof-bridges, built far above the crowded, noisy streets—arched, steel bridges, swung from the summit of one tall building to another like the threads of a spider's web. Each bridge was to be lighted by electricity, and "I'll push Grandpa's wheel chair all across the top o' N'York!" he declared.

Father Pat did not laugh at this think. On the contrary, he thought it both practical and grand. Indeed, he laughed at none of Johnnie's ideas, and would listen in the gravest fashion as the boy described a new think-bicycle which had arrived from Wanamaker's just that minute—accompanied by a knife with three blades and a can opener. The Father agreed that there were points in favor of a bicycle which took up no room in so small a flat, and required no oiling. And if Johnnie went so far as to mount the shining leather seat of his latest purchase and circle the kitchen table (Boof scampering alongside), the priest would look on with genuine interest, though the pretend-bicycle was the same broomstick which, on other occasions, galloped the floor as a dappled steed of Aladdin's.

As a matter of fact, Father Pat entered into Johnnie's games like any boy. Unblushing, he telephoned over the Barber clothesline. More than once, with whistles and coaxings and pats, he fed the dog! He even thought up games of his own. "Now ye think I'm comin' in alone," he said one morning. "That's because ye see nobody else. But, ho-ho! What deceivin'! For, shure, right here in me pocket I've got a friend—Mr. Charles Dickens!"

On almost every visit he would have some such surprise. Or perhaps he would fetch in just a bit of news. "I hear they're thinkin' o' raisin' a statoo o' Colonel Roosevelt at the Sixth Avenoo entrance to Central Park," he told Johnnie one day. "And I'm informed it's t' be Roosevelt the Rough Rider. Now at present the statoo's but a thought—a thought in the minds o' men and women, but in the brain o' a sculptor in particular. However, there'll come a day when the thought'll freeze into bronze. Dear me, think o' that!"

At all times how ready and willing he was to answer questions! "Ask me annything," he would challenge smilingly. He was a mine, a storehouse, yes, a very fountain of knowledge, satisfying every inquiry, settling every argument—even to that one regarding the turning of the earth. And so Johnnie would constantly propound: How far does the snow fall? Why doesn't the rain hurt when it hits? Do flies talk? What made Grandpa grow old?

Ah, those were the days which were never to be forgotten!

There came a day which brought with it an added joy. So often Johnnie had mourned the fact that he did not have more than one friend at a time. But late on a blazing August afternoon, just as the Father was getting up to take his leave, the hall door squeaked open slowly, and there on the threshold, with his wide hat, his open vest, watchchain, furred breeches and all, was One-Eye! ("Oh, two at a time, now!" Johnnie boasted to Cis that night. "Two at a time!")

Yet at first he was not able to believe his own eyes. Neither was Father Pat. The priest stared at the cowboy like a man in a daze. Then he looked away, winking and pursing his lips. Once more he stared. At last, one hand outstretched uncertainly, he crossed to One-Eye and cautiously touched him.

Not understanding, One-Eye very respectfully took the hand, and shook it. "How are y'?" he said.

"Ah! So ye do exist!" breathed the Father, huskily. Then shaking hands again, "Shure, I've heard about ye for this long time, but was under the impression that ye was only a spook!"

Warm were the greetings exchanged now by the cowboy and Johnnie. One-Eye was powerfully struck by the improvement in the latter's physical appearance. "Gee-whillikens, sonny!" he cried. "W'y, y're not half as peeked as y' used t' be! Y're fuller in the face! And a lot taller! Say!" And when Johnnie explained that it was mostly due to a quart of milk which a certain Mr. Perkins had been bringing to him six days out of seven (until the supply had been cut off along with the visits of the donor), without another syllable, up got One-Eye and tore out, leaving the door open, and raising a pillar of dust on the stairs in the wake of his spurs. He was back in no time, a quart of ice-cold milk in either hand. "If he likes it," he explained to Father Pat, "and if it's good for him, w'y, they ain't no reason under the shinin' sun w'y he can't have it.—Sonny, I put in a' order for a quart ev'ry mornin'. And I paid for six months in advance."

His own appearance was not what it had been formerly. He looked less leathery, and lanker. In answer to Johnnie's anxious inquiry, he admitted that he had been sick, "Havin' et off, accidental, 'bout half a' inch o' mustache;" though, so far as Johnnie could see, none of the sandy ornament appeared to be missing. And where had he been all this long time? Oh, jes' shuttlin' 'twixt Cheyenne and the ranch.

His sickness had changed him in certain subtle ways. He had less to say than formerly, did not mention Barber, did not ask after Cis, and jiggled one foot constantly, as if he were on the point of again jumping up and taking flight. Father Pat gone, he brightened considerably as he discussed the departed guest. "Soldier, eh!" he exclaimed. "Wal, young feller, I'll say this preachin' gent ain't no ev'ryday, tenderfoot parson! No, ma'am! He's got savvy!"

He was politely attentive, if not enthusiastic, when Johnnie told him more about Mr. Perkins, the future scout dwelling especially upon that rosy time which would see him in uniform ("but how I'm goin' t' get that, I don't know"). Johnnie did all the setting-up exercises for the Westerner, too; and, as a final touch, displayed for his inspection an indisputably clean neck!

But Johnnie had saved till the last the crowning news of all. And he felt certain that if the cowboy had shown not more than a lively interest in Father Pat, and had been only politely heedful regarding boy scouts, things would be altogether different when he heard about the engagement.

"One-Eye," began Johnnie, impressively, "I got somethin' else t' tell y'. Oh, it's somethin' that'll su'prise y' awful! What d' y' think it is?"

One-Eye was in the morris chair at the time, his hat on, his single organ of vision roving the kitchen. In particular, it roved in the direction of the tiny room, where, through the open door, could be seen dimly the gay paper flounces bedecking Cis's dressing-table. "Aw, I dunno," he answered dully.

"But, guess, One-Eye!" persisted Johnnie, eager to fire the cowboy's curiosity. "Guess! And I'll help y' out by tellin' y' this much: it's 'bout Cis."

Ah! That caught the interest! Johnnie could tell by the way that single eye came shooting round to hold his own. "Yeh?" exclaimed the Westerner. "Wal—? Wal—?" He leaned forward almost impatiently.

"Cis and Mister Perkins 're goin' t' be married."

One-Eye continued to stare; and Johnnie saw the strangest expression come into the green eye. Anger seemed a part of that expression, and instantly Johnnie regretted having shared the news (but why should the cowboy be angry?) Also there was pain in the look. Then did One-Eye disapprove?

At this last thought, Johnnie hastened to explain how things stood in the flat. "Big Tom, he don't know they're goin' t' be married," he said, "and we'd be 'fraid t' tell him."

"I—I savvy." Now One-Eye studied the floor. Presently, as if he were busy with his thoughts, he reached up and dragged his hat far down over his blind eye. The hat settled, he settled himself—lower and lower in the big chair, his shoulders doubling, his knees falling apart, his clasped hands hanging between his knees and all but touching his boots. Thus he stayed for a little, bowed.

All this was so different from what Johnnie had expected that again he suspected displeasure—toward Cis, toward himself; and as with a sinking, miserable heart he watched his visitor, he wished from his soul that he had kept the engagement to himself. "Y' ain't g-g-glad," he stammered finally.

However, as Johnnie afterward remarked to Cis, when it came to judging what the cowboy felt about this or that, a person never could tell. For, "Glad?" repeated One-Eye, raising the bent head; "w'y, sonny, I'm tickled t' death t' hear it!—jes' plumb tickled t' death!" (And how was Johnnie to know that this was not strictly the truth?)

The next afternoon, while Father Pat was reading aloud the story of the Sangreal, here entered One-Eye again, stern purpose in the very upturning of that depleted mustache. "Figgered mebbe I could ask y' t' do somethin' fer me," he told the priest. "It's concernin' that scout proposition o' Johnnie's. Seems like he'll be needin' a uniform pretty soon, won't he? Wondered if y'd mind pur-chasin' it." Then down upon the kitchen table he tossed a number of crisp, green bills.

Stunned at sight of so much money, paralyzed with emotion, and tongue-tied, Johnnie could only stare. Afterward he remembered, with a bothersome, worried feeling, that he had not thanked One-Eye before the latter took his leave along with Father Pat. That night on the roof he walked up and down while he whispered his gratitude to a One-Eye who was a think. "Oh, it just stuck in my throat, kind of," he explained. "Oh, I'm sorry I acted so funny!" (Why did the words of appreciation simply flow from between his lips now? though he had not been able to whisper one at the proper time!)

That night, wearing the uniform he had not yet seen, he took a long pretend-walk; but not along any street of the East Side; not even up Fifth Avenue. He chose a garden set thick with trees. There was a lake in the garden; and wonderful birds flew about—parrots, they were, like the ones owned by Crusoe. For a new suit of an ordinary kind, any thoroughfare of the city might have done well enough. But the new uniform demanded a special setting. And this place of enchantment was Mr. Rockefeller's private park!

It seemed as if the night would never go! Next morning, it seemed as if Big Tom would never go, nor the Father come. But at an early hour the latter did appear, panting, in his arms a large pasteboard box. At sight of that box, Johnnie felt almost faint. But when the string was cut, and the cover taken off, disclosing a crisp, clean, khaki uniform, with little, breathless cries, and excited exclamations, yes, and with wet lashes, he caught the gift up in his arms and held it against him, embracing it. It was his! His! Oh, the overwhelming joy of knowing it was his!

Though there was, of course, a chance that another strike might happen, and Big Tom come trudging home, nevertheless Johnnie could not resist the temptation of donning the precious outfit, seeing himself in it, and showing himself to the Father. But first he took a thorough hand-wash, this to guard against soiling a new garment; to insure against surprise while he was putting the clothes on, he scurried into Cis's room with the armful, leaving Father Pat in the morris chair, from where the latter called out advice now and again.

On went everything. Not without mistakes, however, and some fumbling, in the poor light, over strange fastenings (all of Johnnie's fingers had turned into thumbs). The Father had done his part particularly well, and the suit fitted nicely. So did the leggings, so soon as Johnnie, discovering that he had them on upside down, inverted them. The buttoning and the belting, the lacing and the knotting, at an end, he put on the hat. But was undecided as to whether or not he should wear it at a slant of forty-five degrees, as One-Eye wore his, or straight, as was Mr. Perkins's custom. Finally he chose the latter fashion, took a long breath, like a swimmer coming up out of the depths, and—walked forth in a pair of squeaking brown shoes.

How different from the usual Johnnie Smith he looked! He had lost that curious chunky appearance which Barber's old clothes gave him, and which was so misleading. On the other hand, his thin arms and pipelike legs were concealed, respectively, by becoming cloth and canvas. As for his body, it was slender, and lithe. And how straight he stood! And how smart was his appearance! And how tall he seemed!

The priest threw up astonished hands. "Shure," he cried, "and is this annybody I know?"

"Oh, it is! I am!" declared Johnnie, flushing under the brim of the olive-drab hat. "It's me, Father Pat! Oh, my! Do I look fine? D' y' like it?"

Grandpa did, for he was circling Johnnie, cackling with excitement. "Oh, go fetch Mother!" he pleaded. "Go fetch Mother!—Oh, Mother, hurry up! Come and see Johnnie!"

The Father walked in circles too, exclaiming and admiring. "It can't be a certain little lad who lives in the Barber flat," he puzzled. "So who can it be? No, I don't know this small soldier, and I'll thank ye if ye'll introduce me!"

"Oh," answered Johnnie, "I ain't 'zac'ly sure I'm myself! Oh, Father Pat, isn't it wonderful?—and I know I've got it 'cause I can take hold of it, and smell it! Oh, my goodness!" A feeling possessed him which he had never had before—a feeling of pride in his personal appearance. With it came a sense of self-respect. "And I seem t' be new, and clean, and fine," he added, "jus' like the clothes!"

"Ye're a wee gentleman!" asserted the Father; "—a soldier and a gentleman!" And he saluted Johnnie.

Johnnie returned the salute—twice! Whereupon Grandpa fell to saluting, and calling out commands in his quavering old voice, and trying to stand upon his slippered feet.

In the midst of all the uproar, "Oh, One-Eye! One-Eye! One-Eye!" For here, piling one happiness upon another, here was the cowboy, staggering in under the weight of a huge, ice-cold watermelon.

"That's my name!" returned the Westerner, grinning. "But y' better take the eggs outen my pockets 'fore ye grab me like that. Y' know eggs can bust."

When the eggs were rescued, along with a whole pound of butter, Johnnie saluted One-Eye. Next, he held out his hand. "Oh, I—I think you're awful good," he declared (he had thought up this much of his speech the night before on the roof).

One-Eye waved him away as if he were a fly, and said "Bosh!" a great many times as Johnnie tried to continue. Finally, to change the subject, the cowboy broke into that sad song about his mother, which stopped any further attempt to thank him.

"I'll tell y' what," he declared when Johnnie's mind was at last completely diverted from his polite intention; "they's jes' one thing shy. Yeppie, one. What y' need now is a nice, fine, close hair cut."

"At a—at a barber's?" Johnnie asked, already guessing the answer.

"Come along!"

"Oh, One-Eye!" gasped Johnnie. (Oh, the glory of going out in the uniform! and with the cowboy! And how would he ever be able to take the new suit off!) "But if I wear it out, and he sees me, and——"

One-Eye was at the door, ready to lead the way. (Father Pat would stay behind with Grandpa.) The cowboy turned half about. "If Barber was t' find out," he answered, "and so much as laid a little finger on that suit, he'd have t' settle matters with me. Come!"

Like one in an enchanted dream, Johnnie followed on in his stiff, new shoes. It was noon, and as they emerged from the dark hallway which led into the main street to the north, the sidewalks were aswarm. Indeed, the doorstep which gave from the hall to the pave was itself planted thick with citizens of assorted sizes. To get out, One-Eye lifted his spurred boots high over the heads of two small people. But Johnnie, doffing the scout hat with practiced art, "'Scuse me, please," he begged, in perfect imitation of Mr. Perkins; and in very awe fully six of the seated, having given a backward glance, and spied that uniform, rose precipitately to let him by.

"Johnnie Barber!" gasped some one. "What d' y' know!" demanded another. From a third came a long, low whistle of amazement.

Johnnie's ears stung pleasantly. "Hear 'em?" he asked One-Eye. "Course they mean me!"

"Ad-mi-ra-tion," pronounced the cowboy, who always took his big words thus, a syllable at a time. "Sonny, y've knocked 'em all pie-eyed!"

The barber shop was not nearly so regal as that restaurant of fond and glorious memory. Yet in its way it was splendid; and it was most interesting, what with its lean-back chairs, man-high mirrors, huge stacks of towels, lines of glittering bottles, and rows of shaving mugs (this being a neighborhood shop). And how deliciously it smelled!

It was a little, dark gentleman in a gleaming white coat who waved Johnnie into one of the chairs—from which, his eyes wide and eager, the latter viewed himself as never before, from his bare head to his knees, and scarcely knew himself!

One-Eye came to stand over the chair. "Now, don't y' give the boy one of them dis-gustin', round, mush-bowl hair cuts!" he warned, addressing the small, dark man. "Nope. He wants the reg'lar old-fashioned kind, with a feather edge right down t' the neck."

When one travels about under the wing of a millionaire, all things happen right. This was Johnnie's pleased conclusion as, with a snip, snip, snip, the bright scissors did their quick work over his yellow head. He had a large white cloth pinned about his shoulders (no doubt the barber had noted the uniform, and was giving it fitting protection), and upon that cloth fell the severed bits of hair, flecking it with gold. In what One-Eye described afterward as "jig-time," the last snip was made. Then Johnnie had his neck dusted with a soft brush, the white cloth was removed, and he stood up, shorn and proud.

Outside, several boys were hanging against the window, peering in. As Johnnie settled his hat he recalled something Father Pat had once said about the desirability of putting one's self in another person's place. Johnnie did that, and realized what a fortunate boy he was—with his wonderful friend at his side, his uniform on his back, and "a dandy hair cut." So as he went out in One-Eye's wake, "Hullo!" he called to the boys in the most cordial way.

"And I reckon we look some punkins?" the cowboy observed when they were back in the flat once more.

"Shure," replied Father Pat, "and what's more civilizin' than a barber shop!"

And now the question was, how could Cis view Johnnie in all his military magnificence without putting that new uniform in danger? One-Eye had the answer: he would be down in the area when Big Tom arrived from work, "And off we'll go for see-gars," he plotted, "so the field'll be clear."

However, as he waited for Cis, Johnnie could not bring himself to take too many chances with One-Eye's superb gift, and hid it, though he felt hot enough, beneath Barber's big clothes (and how fortunate it was that the longshoreman's cast-offs were voluminous enough to go over everything). Thus doubly clad, he looked exceedingly plump and padded. That was not the worst of it. The sleeves of the new coat showed. But all he had to do was draw up over them that pair of Cis's stockings which had kept his thin arms warm during the past winter. Of course his leggings and the shoes also showed, so he took these off. Then perspiring, but happy, he watched his two friends go, giving them a farewell salute.

Cis came in promptly. "Oh, all day I've hardly been able to wait!" she declared. Then with upraised hands, "Oh, Johnnie, how beautiful you are! Oh, you're like a picture! Like a picture I once saw of a boy who sang in a church! Oh, Johnnie, you're the best-looking scout in all New York! Yes, you are! And I'm going to kiss you!"

He let her, salving his slight annoyance thereat with the thought that no one could see. "But don't say anythin' t' the Father 'r One-Eye about me bein' beautiful," he pleaded. "Will y'? Huh?"

She promised she would not. "Oh, Johnnie," she cried again, having taken a second view of him from still another angle, and in another light, "that khaki's almost the color of your hair!"—which partly took the joy out of things!

Yet, under the circumstances, no pang of any sort could endure very long. Particularly as—following the proper signal—Johnnie went to Mrs. Kukor's, Cis at his brown heels. Arrived, he saluted an astonished lady who did not at first recognize him; then he took off the new hat to her. She was quite stunned (naturally), and could only sink into a rocker, hands waving, round head wagging. But next, a very torrent of exclamations, all in Yiddish. After that, "Soch stylish!" she gasped rapturously. "Pos-i-tivvle!"

Back in the flat again, Johnnie took off the uniform. That called for will power; but he dared not longer risk his prized possession. Late that night, when Big Tom had eaten to repletion of the watermelon, and smoked himself to sleep on one of One-Eye's cigars, Johnnie reached in around the jamb of Cis's door and cautiously drew that big suit box to him. In the morning it would have to join the books upstairs. However, for a happy, dark hour or two he could enjoy the outfit. How crisp and clean and strong it felt! Blushing at his own foolishness, he lifted the cowboy's gift to his lips and kissed it.