Читать книгу Cole of Spyglass Mountain - Arthur Preston Hankins - Страница 5

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An even greater ogre to the Cole boys than Silvanus Madmallet was their father, John Cole, traveling salesman for a wholesale hardware firm. Their mother, who had been Blanche Florence before her marriage, came of an old and respected family that had come over with Lord Calvert when Maryland was settled. She had married Cole against the family’s wish, and had been paying dearly ever since.

For John Cole was a self-centered brute, a hard master, a spendthrift. The boys did not know—though the mother did—that Cole fancied fast horses and fast women. He was a heavy drinker, but never a sot, for he carried his liquor well. In fact, but for the gloomy, suppressed rage in which it kept him almost constantly, few would have known that he was a steady drinking man.

While he tolerated his son Lester as a necessary nuisance, it seemed at times that he all but hated his older boy. He could not understand Joshua, with his constant, fearless, gray-blue eyes, and the boy’s gravity jarred upon him. And, as in the case of Madmallet, the fact that he could not break the lad’s spirit with the brutal punishment that he inflicted piqued his pride and made him merciless.

He labored under the delusion that Joshua was a “bad boy.” Silvanus Madmallet had told him so, for one thing. Joshua did not progress in the studies prescribed for him, and persisted in reading books which no child should be allowed to read. John Cole did not understand these books himself; they aroused no interest in his unimaginative mind. They were heretic, and while John Cole himself was anything but a firm believer in the Word of God, it was proper that his sons should be. He had taken from Joshua Steele’s Chemistry, Darwin’s Origin of Man and his Descent of Man, and Huxley’s Man’s Place In Nature. He himself had tried to read these books to find out, if possible, what it was all about. And it had proved not possible for him to find out what it was all about. When questioned closely, after Joshua’s head had been submerged in a bathtub full of water until he fell gasping on the floor when released, the boy confessed that he understood but little of what he was reading, but that it interested him nevertheless.

Thrusting his sons’ heads under water until they were all but drowned was John Cole’s own diabolical invention as a form of punishment, and though Lester escaped the terrible ordeal except for what were considered serious offenses, it was meted out to Joshua upon the slightest provocation. For Joshua was “bad,” and it was suspected that what sinfulness was Lester’s was the result of the influence exerted over him by his older brother. The boys’ mother was helpless to prevent these outrages, for he was unshaken by her tears; and threatening to leave her husband only brought forth the lofty invitation: “Go any time you feel like it, Blanche.” And she knew that John Cole meant it. He cared nothing for her. He had squandered her fortune, and continued to live with her, perhaps, only in the vague hope that some wealthy relative of hers might die and leave her more money, which would be easy loot for him again. Despite his constant drinking and his shady affairs with women, Cole was well thought of by his employers. For he was a different man when dealing with them and when calling upon the trade, and, above all, he was a marvelous “money-getter.” But the mother and her boys thanked heaven more than once that his business activities necessarily kept him away from home the greater portion of the time.

No small wonder, then, that Joshua and Lester, as they lazed in the vacant lot and awaited the coming of Slinky Dawson with the note to their parents, planned to stop that note midway in its journey. Slinky Dawson’s route home carried him directly past the Cole house, and the boys had every reason to believe that he would bear the note that day at noon. Their father was away selling goods, but that fact offered no consolation. Joshua had been expelled and Lester suspended for a week, and there was no possibility of their keeping the dread news from their father when he returned.

Lester continued his whining as the hours dragged on, but Joshua lay on his back on the moist earth, to the vast delight of the Cold-and-Croup Demon, and looked up at the blue spring sky. Joshua was forever looking up at the sky when not engaged in disturbing the daily routine of slugs or tumblebugs or spiders.

“Josh, what are we gonta do?” came the oft-repeated wail from Lester.

“Goin’ West,” said Joshua, linking his fingers behind his head and continuing his gazing into the heavens.

“Aw, ye’re jest talkin’!” accused the younger brother. “How c’n ye go West? Where’s yer money to go with? Ye’re always sayin’ ye’re goin’ West, but I notice ye’ve never done it.”

“A fella could go on the tramp,” said Joshua. “Folks’ll give a fella somethin’ to eat when they see he’s hungry an’ honest. I’ve talked to tramps—kids no older’n me. They have a swell time, Les. Then maybe I c’n get some money down at the ole skatin’ rink. You leave it to me.”

“What’ll we do when we get West, Josh?”

“Well—now—they’s lots o’ things a fella c’n do,” answered Joshua. “There’s kids no older’n us that are cowboys. I’ve read lots an’ lots o’ stories about ’em.”

Which proved that young Joshua, though consecrated to science, had not altogether put away boyish things.

“We’ll go down to the rink to-night and see what’s doin’,” he continued. “I c’n pick up a dime or a quarter, maybe, and we c’n get somethin’ to eat before we start. Then when we get away from the city, eatin’ll be easy.”

“Josh, you know you won’t go. You been talkin’ about it for years and years.”

“I will too go!” protested Joshua. “You just watch and see, boy! I’m goin’ this time. No more drownin’ for me—I got enough o’ that ole duckin’ business, myself.”

To tell the truth, though Joshua now told himself that he would take this long-threatened step, he was worried in his heart of hearts. But, boylike, he bolstered up his courage and dreamed of the adventure, while all the time something at the back of his mind laughed at him and told him that he was talking folly. One thing certain, though, he would not go home and face his father, that father knowing that he had been expelled from school. He felt that he could not stand one more submersion in that terrible water, with his pulse throbbing at his temples and the horrible pangs of strangulation clutching at his throat and contracting his heart, and everything growing black. No, no more of that! He might not go West, but he never would return home with that awaiting him.

The hours dragged on, and when the warm sun was high in the heavens the entrance of the brick schoolhouse vomited a stream of yelling, shoving, elbowing young humanity that at once disintegrated and spread in all directions. Then it was that Joshua and Lester left their places and hid behind a high-board fence close by. Here they watched friends and acquaintances pass hurriedly till at length came Slinky Dawson, walking with importance.

His importance soon forsook him, for presently upon him pounced two young highwaymen demanding the cause of his importance. Joshua stood in his path, fists on hips, and Lester threatened him on his right.

“What ye got, Dawson?” demanded Joshua.

Slinky Dawson’s freckled face grew paler than it was ordinarily, for Slinky was an unhealthy, boot-licking, soft-spoken bigot, one of those beings doomed for life to be the scorn of less gentle but more red-blooded males.

“I haven’t anything, Joshua,” he replied, a look of fear and guilt in his milk-blue eyes. Slinky Dawson never would have said, “I ain’t got anything,” and he invariably called his schoolmates by their first names. Which proved that he was no man.

“You’re a liar,” Joshua told him smoothly. “Dare ye to take it up!”

Slinky squirmed and his thin lips fluttered. Slinky never took up anything.

“Aw, gi’me that note to our folks, kid,” said Joshua, stepping closer, disgust written on his face. “Don’t monkey with me, boy, er I’ll bust ye wide open! You know me. Gi’me Ole Madmallet’s letter before I smash yeh!”

“I—I— Honest, Joshua—”

Joshua drew back a threatening fist, then slowly brought it forward until it was rubbing Slinky’s nose. “Gonta gi’me it, boy?”

“Ye—yes, sir!” And Slinky reached trembling fingers into his blouse and produced an unsealed envelope. “Honest, Joshua, I couldn’t help it. Mr. Madmallet—”

“Dry up!”

Joshua had snatched the envelope from Slinky’s hand, and as he read aloud the superscription on the back his sarcastic tones were an attempt to imitate Madmallet’s:

“ ‘Mrs. John H. Cole, Three fifty-five Grant Avenue. Kindness of Albert Dawson.’

“Well, you ain’t gonta be so kind, after all, Mr. Albert Dawson,” jeered the leader of the outlaws. “And now lissen to me, kid: If you don’t go back this afternoon an’ tell Ole Sorehatchet that you give this note to our mother, me’n’ Les’ll lay fer you an’ knock the stuffin’ outa you. Don’t you ferget it, kid! Now go on home an’ keep yer face closed.”

“But—”

“Gwan, I’m tellin’ ye!”

And Slinky Dawson, glad that the ordeal was over but with a sinking heart for the consequences of his remissness, faded away.

Joshua read the contents of the envelope, a brief statement of what had occurred, then tore the paper to shreds.

“Now, c’m’on, kid,” said he. “Le’s get down to the Crescent an’ see what’s doin’.”

Most boys who possess such a studious turn of mind as did Joshua are of the Slinky Dawson type. Slinky was inefficient in everything except his studies. He could not play ball; any boy in school could outrun him; any boy could whip him. Joshua, on the other hand, was one of the foremost athletes in Hathaway’s Boyland. But, then, it was not dreamed that Joshua was a student. Had he not failed repeatedly in arithmetic and grammar? Then how could he be a studious boy? That he was the best pitcher on the Third-room Nine was an established fact. That he could run and jump and wrestle went undisputed. And that no one in the city—man, woman, girl or boy—could equal him on roller-skates was supposed to be the height of his accomplishments.

For more than a year he had visited the Crescent Skating Rink in the heart of the city whenever opportunity offered. There during the past winter he had come in contact with an operatic star, who, seeing his grace and expertness, and herself being an enthusiastic novice at the sport, had asked him to teach her. It seemed that roller-skating had become a fad with a certain opera company that was playing in Hathaway, and the boy’s marvelous performances had aroused the interest of all of them, after the first lady of the troupe had smiled upon him. One thing led to another, and, though the troupe had long since left the city, Joshua’s services were still in demand by novices who wished to learn to skate. Being only a boy, and in school a greater part of the time at that, the owners of the rink had not offered him a position as instructor. But they encouraged him and allowed him to take tips from those who asked for his help.

To the Crescent Rink the boys now betook themselves, and the ticket-taker passed them in free, for Lester had often accompanied his brother. Lester sat in the spectators’ gallery brooding over his trouble, while Joshua put on a pair of skates and glided out on the floor, the envy of the awkward skaters already assembled. Before long Joshua had a pupil, and after half an hour he had a tip of twenty-five cents. Then his charge left the rink, and he sought new fields.

He glided gracefully about the floor, on the alert for some one who wished to be taught, and as he made the second round his eyes alighted upon a girl with reddish-golden hair, who, unaided by an escort, was putting on her skates. Joshua executed a long curve and swept up beside her.

“Le’me help you,” he offered, and bent on one knee before her.

He heard a girlish giggle of bashfulness and looked up into reddish-brown eyes that matched the hair.

And then, for love strikes quick and sure to the heart of a red-blooded boy, Joshua Cole knew that his eyes beheld the most glorious creature in all the world, and something came up in his throat and nearly choked him. It was as sudden and unexpected as a blow between the eyes.