Short Stories of Various Types

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But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due
to sinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet
they knew, somehow, that such things were not to be. According to their
knowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they would
receive this fortune, but they frightened themselves in speaking of it;
they knew that they _could_ not have a hundred dollars for their
own. An oppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended
upon them at intervals.

Presently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again by
Penrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither
of them had the slightest idea how to get it there, but such details as
that were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the
question of what their advertisement ought to "say." Finding that they
differed irreconcilably, Penrod went to a cache of his in the
sawdust-box and brought two pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one
of the pencils and several sheets to Sam; then both boys bent
themselves in silence to the labor of practical composition. Penrod
produced the briefer paragraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample.
(See Fig. II.)

[Illustration: FIG I]

[Illustration: FIG II]

Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other had
written, but both felt that something praiseworthy had been
accomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he
had observed his father use sometimes, he said:

"Thank goodness, _that's_ off my mind, anyway!"

"What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed
manner having some effect upon him.

"I don't know what _you're_ goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up
the old cigar box which had contained the paper and pencils. _"I'm_
goin' to put mine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get
at it."

"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," said Sam. Thereupon he
deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigar box, and the
box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.

"There, _that's_ 'tended to!" said Sam, and, unconsciously imitating
his friend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction
and relief. Both boys felt that the financial side of their great
affair had been conscientiously looked to, that the question of the
reward was settled, and that everything was proceeding in a
businesslike manner. Therefore, they were able to turn their attention
to another matter.

This was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of
the morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided
that nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables, or bread; it
was evident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.

"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed
him," Penrod said gloomily. "We could work a week and not get enough to
make him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew
most of it away. He'd try to scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip,
and then he'd haf to kind of blow out his breath, and after that all
the grass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin' to the
outsides of his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple
branch. We can't trust him with branches."

Sam jumped up.

"_I_ know!" he cried. "There's lots of leaves left on the branches. We
can give them to him."

"I just said----"

"I don't mean the branches," Sam explained. "We'll leave the branches
on the trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in
the bucket and feed 'em to him out the bucket."

Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an
hour the two boys were busy with the lower branches of various trees in
the yard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of
wet leaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way, displaying little of his
earlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might have been more
tedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anything
that involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. The
drizzle had thickened; the leaves were heavy with water, and at every
jerk the branches sent fat drops over the two collectors. They attained
a noteworthy state of sogginess.

Finally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors,
and Della appeared upon the back porch.

"Musther Penrod," she called, "y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the house
this minute an' change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else ye
got on! D'ye hear me?"

Penrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from
the tree he was depleting and ran for the stable.

"You tell her I'm dry as toast!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Della withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; and
a moment later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. She
opened it and walked resolutely to the stable.

"She says I'm to bring ye in the house," said Della, "an' I'm goin' to
bring ye!"

Sam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginnings
of an unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did
not stay for its culmination. Without a word to each other they
hurriedly tiptoed up the stairs to the gloomy loft, and there they
paused, listening.

They heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.

"Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in," they heard her say; "but I'll
show ye! She tole me to bring ye, and I'm----"

She was interrupted by a peculiar sound--loud, chilling, dismal, and
unmistakably not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough,
but Della had not their experience. A smothered shriek reached their
ears; there was a scurrying noise, and then, with horror, they heard
Della's footsteps in the passageway that ran by Whitey's manger.
Immediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish of
knowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctly
the words, "O Lard in hivvin!" in the well-known voice of Della. She
shrieked again, and they heard the rush of her footfalls across the
carriage-house floor. Wild words came from the outer air, and the
kitchen door slammed violently. It was all over. She had gone to
"tell."

Penrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. They
climbed the back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam's
yard, and, without consultation, headed for the cellar doors, nor
paused till they found themselves in the farthest, darkest, and
gloomiest recess of the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear,
they sank down upon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against
the stone wall.

Thus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping upon
Penrod and Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown was
before them. How great their crime would turn out to be (now that it
was in the hands of grown people), they did not know, but, since it
concerned a horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of terrible
dimensions.

Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both
innocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds as
manifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed to
play upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging to
strangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into
the stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually
stolen him, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light through
the small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon the
vegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, that
Nemesis,[43-1] would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and
she would find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the
cellar, for she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would
be known concerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his
case was worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a suggestion which roused
such horrible possibilitites concerning the principal item of their
offense that all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.

"Listen, Penrod," Sam quavered: "What--what if that--what if that ole
horse maybe b'longed to a--policeman!" Sam's imagination was not of the
comforting kind. "What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he
was some policeman's horse?"

Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words, but
both boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey _had_
belonged to a policeman, and in their sense of so ultimate a disaster,
they ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probably
do to them. The penalty for stealing a policeman's horse would be only
a step short of capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; but
vague, looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began to
flicker before them.

It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see each
other.

"I guess they're huntin' for us by now," Sam said huskily. "I don't--I
don't like it much down here, Penrod."

Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom:

"Well, who ever said you did?"

"Well----" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, "I wish we'd never
_seen_ that dern ole horse."

"It was every bit his fault," said Penrod. "_We_ didn't do anything. If
he hadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happened
at all. Ole fool!" He rose. "I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I've
stood about enough for one day."

"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' _home_, are you?"

"No; I'm not! What do you take me for? You think I'm crazy?"

"Well, where _can_ you go?"

How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful,
but he made this statement:

"I don't know where _you're_ goin', but _I'm_ goin' to walk straight
out in the country till I come to a farm-house and say my name's George
and live there!"

"I'll do it, too," Sam whispered eagerly. "I'll say my name's Henry."

"Well, we better get started," said the executive Penrod. "We got to
get away from here, anyway."

But when they came to ascend the steps leading to the "outside doors,"
they found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.

"It's no use," Sam lamented, "and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to,
once before. Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock--I forgot. We
got to go up the stairway and try to sneak out through the house."

They tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top,
then breathlessly stepped out into a hall which was entirely dark. Sam
touched Penrod's sleeve in warning, and bent to listen at a door.

Immediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where sat
Penrod's mother and Sam's father.

It was Sam's mother who had opened the door.

"Come into the library, boys," she said. "Mrs. Schofield is just
telling us about it."

And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's
mother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the
fire.

"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling
Mr. and Mrs. Williams about you and Sam," she said. "You'd better make
Sam keep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got
wringing wet. Think of their running off just when most people would
have wanted to stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told
me all about it, and what the cook next door said _she'd_ seen, how
they'd been trying to pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all
day--and all about the apples they carried from _your_ cellar, and
getting wet and working in the rain as hard as they could--and they'd
given him a loaf of bread! Shame on you, Penrod!" She paused to laugh,
but there was a little moisture round her eyes, even before she
laughed. "And they'd fed him on potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and
turnips out of _our_ cellar! And I wish you'd see the sawdust bed they
made for him! Well, when I'd telephoned, and the Humane Society man got
there, he said it was the most touching thing he ever knew. It seems he
_knew_ this horse, and had been looking for him. He said ninety-nine
boys out of a hundred would have chased the poor old thing away, and he
was going to see to it that this case didn't go unnoticed, because the
local branch of the society gives little silver medals for special acts
like this. And the last thing he said before he led the poor old horse
away was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded one at
the meeting of the society next Thursday night."

... On the following Saturday morning a yodel sounded from the sunny
sidewalk in front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth,
beheld the familiar figure of Samuel Williams in waiting.

Upon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by a
white ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod
was a decoration precisely similar.

"'Lo, Penrod," said Sam. "What you goin' to do?"

"Nothin'."

"I got mine on," said Sam.

"I have, too," said Penrod. "I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for
mine."

Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other
without shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy either in
himself or in his comrade. On the contrary!

Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they
wandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street
and to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighborhood.
Then he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, where
multitudes were.

"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house clock," said
Penrod.

MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS

"American, Sir!"[A]

"Dear Uncle Bill:" (And why he should have called me "Uncle Bill,"
Heaven only knows. I was not his uncle and almost never had I been
addressed as "Bill." But he chose the name, without explanation, from
the first.) "Dear Uncle Bill: Where am I going to in vacation? The
fellows ask. Their fathers come to Commencement and take them home. I'm
the only one out, because my father's dead. And I haven't anybody to
belong to. It would be great if you'd come. Yours Sincerely--John."

[A] Copyright, 1919, by the American National Red Cross.

I threw the letter in the scrap-basket and an hour later fished it out.
I read it over. I--go to a school commencement! Not if I knew it! The
cheek of the whippersnapper! I had not even seen him; he might be any
sort of wild Indian; he might expect me to "take him home" afterwards.
Rather _not_! I should give him to understand that I would pay his
bills and--well, yes--I would send him to a proper place in vacations;
but be bothered by him personally I would not. Fishing trips to Canada
interrupted by a child! Unthinkable. I would write to that effect.

I sat down to my orderly desk and drew out paper. I began: "Dear John."
Then I stopped. An unwelcome vision arose of a small boy who was "the
only one out." "My father's dead." Thirty years rolled back, and I saw
the charming boy, a cousin, who had come to be this lad's father. I
turned my head at that thought, as long ago I had turned it every
morning when I waked to look at him, the beautiful youngster of my
adoration, sleeping across the room which we shared together. For a
dozen years we shared that room and other things--ponies, trips abroad,
many luxuries. For the father and mother who worshipped and pampered
John, and who were casually kind to me, an uninteresting orphan--these
were rich, then, and free-handed. Too free-handed, it was seen later,
for when the two were killed at one moment in an accident, only debts
were left for John. I was suddenly important, I, the gray satellite of
the rainbow prince, for I had a moderate fortune. The two of us were
just graduated from Yale; John with honors and prizes and hosts of
friends, I with some prizes and honors. Yet I had not been "tapped" for
"Bones" or "Scroll and Key"[49-1] and I was a solitary pilgrim ever,
with no intimates. We stood so together, facing out towards life.

I split my unimpressive patrimony in two and John took his part and
wandered south on a mining adventure. For that, he was always keen
about the south and his plan from seventeen on was to live in Italy.
But it was I, after all, who went to Italy year after year, while John
led Lord knows what thriftless life in Florida. From the last morning
when he had wheeled, in our old big room, and dashed across it and
thrown his arms around me in his own impulsive, irresistible way--since
that morning I had never seen him. Letters, plenty. More money was
needed always. John always thought that the world owed him a living.

Then he did the thing which was incredible and I pulled him out and
hushed up the story and repaid the money, but it made me ill, and I
suppose I was a bit savage, for he barely answered my letters after,
and shortly stopped writing altogether. John could not endure
unpleasantness. I lost sight of him till years later when he--and
I--were near forty and I had a note signed Margaret Donaldson, John's
wife. John was dead. He had been on a shooting trip and a gun had gone
off. Though it was not in words, yet through them I got a vague
suggestion of suicide. Heavy-hearted, I wondered. The life so suddenly
ended had once been dear to me.

"They did not bring John home," the note said. "He was so badly
mutilated that they buried him near where he died. I believe he would
have wanted you to know, and for that reason I am writing. I am an
entirely capable bread-winner, so that John's boy and I will have no
troubles as to money."

There was a child two years old. I liked the chill and the independence
of the proud little note.

The next chapter opened ten years later with a letter saying that
Margaret Donaldson's boy was left with her poor and elderly parents and
that they did not want him. Would I, his mother being dead, take care
of him? He was twelve, healthy and intelligent--which led directly to
the evening when I sat, very cross, at my desk and fished young John's
note out of the scrap-basket. I had got as far in answer as "Dear
John"--when these visions of the past interrupted. I am not soft-hearted.
I am crabbed and prejudiced and critical, and I dislike irregularity.
Above all I am thoroughly selfish. But the sum of that is short of
being brutal. Only sheer brutality could repel the lad's note and
request. My answer went as follows:

"Dear John: I will come to your commencement and bring you back
with me for a short time. I may take you on a fishing trip to
Canada. Sincerely, Uncle Bill."

The youngster as he came into the school drawing-room was a thing to
remember. He was a tall boy, and he looked like his father. Very olive
he was--and is--and his blue eyes shone out of the dark face from under
the same thickset and long lashes. His father's charm and beauty halted
me, but I judged, before I let myself go, that he had also his mother's
stability. I have seen no reason since to doubt my judgment. I never
had so fine a fishing trip to Canada as that summer, in spite of the
fact that John broke four good rods. He has been my most successful
investment; and when the war broke out and he rushed to me clamoring to
go, I felt indeed that I was giving humanity my best and my own. Then
one day he came, in his uniform of an ambulance driver, to tell me
good-bye.

That was in 1914, and the boy, just about to enter Yale, was eighteen.
He went through bad fighting, and in March, 1917, he was given a Croix
de Guerre.[52-1] Then America came in and he transferred to his own
flag and continued ambulance work under our Red Cross. He drove one
of the twenty ambulances hurried into Italy after the Caporetto
disaster[52-2] in October, the first grip of the hand of America to
that brave hand of Italy.

I did not know for a time that my lad was in the ambulance section
rushed to Italy, but I had a particular interest from the first in this
drive for I had spent weeks, twice, up in Lombardy and Venetia.[52-3]
That was how I followed the Italian disaster--as a terrible blow to a
number of old friends. Then after the Caporetto crisis came the stand
behind the Tagliamento;[52-4] the retreat still farther and the more
hopeful stand behind the Piave.[52-5] And with that I knew that the
First Ambulance Section was racing to the Italian front and that my
boy was driving one of the cars.

And behold it was now the year 1919 and the war was over and the
cablegram from Bordeaux, which read: "Sailing 13th Santa Angela 12 day
boat New York," was a week old.

Of course I met him. I left a director's meeting and vital engagements,
with indecent firmness, to meet that ship. At crack of dawn on a raw
morning in March I arose and drove miles to a freezing pier to meet it.
And presently, as I stood muffled in a fur coat, an elderly, grizzled,
small man, grim and unexhilarating--presently the soul of this
monotonous person broke into song. For out of the early morning, out
from behind a big anchored vessel near the pier, poked the nose of a
troop ship and lumbered forward, and her decks were brown with three
thousand soldiers--Americans of our victorious army coming home from
overseas.

It was a sight which none of us will ever see again. Out in the harbor
tugs were yelping, whistles blowing; the little fleet which had gone
down the bay to meet the incoming troops was screaming itself mad in a
last chorus of joyful welcome. And the good ship _Santa Angela_,
blessed old tub, rolled nearer till the lads on her, shouting, waving,
laughing, crying lads could be seen separately, and she had rounded the
corner into the slip and was mere yards from the dock.

And then the boy came down the gangplank and I greeted him as is my
ungracious way, as if he had been off on a sailing trip. But he knew,
and he held to me, the tall fellow, with his arm around my shoulder
unashamed, and from that moment to this in the den he had hardly let me
out of his sight.

After dinner that night I settled back in deep satisfaction and lighted
a fresh cigar. And the boy, standing before the blazing logs, which
kept up a pleasant undertone to the music of his young voice, began.

"You know, Uncle Bill, we were blamed proud to be Red Cross when we
knew what was doing about Italy. It was plumb great. You know it all
of course. But I saw it. No worse fight ever--in all history. Towns
turned into a rolling river of refugees. Hungry, filthy, rain-soaked,
half-clad--old, babies, sick--a multitude pitiful beyond words--stumbling,
racing down those mountain trails, anyhow--to get anywhere--away."

He dropped into a chair and went on.

"We didn't get there for the first, but it was plenty bad enough," and
his eyes were seeing wordless sights. "The United States had declared
war on Austria December 7th, and four days later Section One was
rolling across the battlefield of Solferino.

"I was proud to be in that bunch. Talk about the flower of a country,
Uncle Bill,--we grew 'em. Six wore the Croix de Guerre--well, of course
that's often just luck." He reddened as he remembered who was one of
that six. "All of them had gone through battles a-plenty. Whole
shooting-match keen for service--no slackers and no greenhorns in that
crowd.

"We started on the twelve hundred mile trip to Milan from Paris
November 18th, and at Ventimiglia, just over the border, Italy welcomed
us. Lord, Uncle Bill," the boy laughed out, and rubbed his eyes where
tears stood. "They wouldn't look at our passports--no, sir! They opened
the gate to Italy and we rolled in like visiting princes. They showered
presents on us, those poor villagers--food, flowers--all they had.
Often didn't keep any for themselves.

"We got there December 8th. Tuned up the cars and were off again in
two or three days, to the job. They gave us a great send-off. Real
party. Two parties. First a sort of reception in a big gray courtyard
of an old palace, all dolled up with American and Italian flags. Big
bugs and speeches--and they presented us to Italy. A bugle blew and
a hundred of us in khaki--we'd been reinforced--stood at salute and
an Italian general swept into the gates with his train of plumed
Bersagliari[55-1]--sent to take us over. Then we twenty drove our
busses out with our own flags flying and pulled up again for Party
Number Two in front of the Cathedral. Finally the Mayor bid us his
prettiest good-bye, and off we drove again through the cheering crowds
and the waving flags--this time out of the city gate--to the Piave
front."

The boy rose from his chair, put on a fresh log, then turned and stood
facing me, towering over me in his young magnificence.

It flashed to me that I'd never seen him look so like his father, yet
so different. All John Donaldson's physical beauty, all his charm were
repeated in his son, but underlaid with a manliness, a force which poor
John never had.

"We were pitched into the offensive in the hottest of it," spoke the
boy. "It was thick. We were hampered by lack of workers. We wanted
Americans. Morgan had a thought.

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