Читать книгу Silas Bradford's Boy - Joseph C Lincoln - Страница 4

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The windows of the sitting room of the Silas Bradford house were faintly illumined as Banks came up the walk to the side door. A peep beneath the shade, however, showed him that although the lamp, its wick turned down, was burning upon the center table, his mother's chair beside that table was empty. Evidently she had done as he requested and had not waited up for him. He was thankful; he did not feel equal to another trying interview that night. There were so many questions he must ask and which she must answer, but for those questions and answers his brain must be clear.

He took the lamp from the table and turned toward the door at the foot of the stairs. He passed the sofa above which, on the wall, hung the portrait of his father. He paused an instant. From the frame the face looked down at him, keen eyed, commanding, confident, dignified. To Banks his father was but a shadowy memory. Silas Bradford had died when his son was five years old, and during those years Captain Silas was at home only at infrequent intervals.

But all his life Banks had heard his praises chanted, not only by Uncle Abijah and Cousin Hettie—who were, of course, Bradfords by birth—but also by Denboro in general. Banks had shared the family pride. It was a fine thing to be Capt. Silas Bradford's son, even though, in boyhood, occasionally a trifle wearing to be reminded that that son must study hard and do this and not do that if he hoped ever to be as great a man as his father.

Now, as he stood there before the portrait, his thoughts were strange enough. For the first time there was a doubt, an unanswered question, in his mind. If Silas Bradford was so clever, so able, so very successful, how could he have left his family, as Uncle Abijah declared he did leave them, with almost no money? And if the other things he had just heard were true—but pshaw, they could not be true! Uncle Bije rated his native town, the town he had always lived in, as a sort of suburb of heaven, and an opportunity presenting even the faint hope of succeeding the late Judge Blodgett as that town's legal adviser would seem to his mind the special dispensation of a kind Providence. The old chap realized that his nephew might not share this conviction and so he was trying to frighten him into it. That was it, of course.

It must be. For if the stories of his mother's economies and sacrifices were true, if they were only half true, what a careless, selfish, blind cub he, Banks Bradford, had been all these years.

Lamp in hand, he tiptoed up the stairs. As he passed the door of Margaret Bradford's room her voice spoke his name.

"Banks," she called.

"Yes, Mother. I hoped you were asleep before this."

"I'm not. Aren't you coming in?"

"No, I guess not. It is late and I'm tired. Good night."

"Banks."

"Now, Mother, go to sleep, please."

"Just one minute, dear. Did—did you have your talk with Uncle Abijah?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you—"

"He told me a lot of things. I'll tell them to you in the morning. Good night."

"Banks, you're not—oh, my poor boy, I am so sorry!"

"Now, Mother, forget it. I am all right. Don't worry about me. Go to sleep; that's what I am going to do."

He closed the door of his own room before she could say more. He undressed and went to bed, but not to sleep. It was almost daybreak before he succeeded in doing that.

He came down to breakfast a trifle haggard and heavy eyed, but his good morning was cheerful and he announced that he was hungry. Margaret, anxiously watching him, noticed that in spite of this brave declaration he ate very little. She ate even less. He did not mention the conference with his uncle and it was not until the meal was almost over that she broached the subject.

"Banks," she sighed, putting down the spoon with which she had been stirring her untasted coffee, "I just can't wait any longer. You must tell me about it. Please do."

He smiled across the table. "After breakfast," he said.

"We haven't either of us eaten any breakfast. You know it. How could I eat when you— Oh, my boy, you don't blame me too much, do you?"

He threw down his napkin and rose. "Leave the table just as it is, Mother," he ordered. "Come into the sitting room and we'll have it out together. Shall we?"

They went into the sitting room. She took the rocker and he the armchair. They looked at each other. Her fingers were nervously twisting and untwisting in her lap and her gaze was fixed upon his face.

"Banks," she pleaded, "please! Don't keep me waiting any longer. All night I—"

"I know. Well, I had rather a night myself. A fellow who is all set to be handed a bouquet and gets a punch in the eye instead doesn't get over the surprise, not in an hour or two. Especially when he isn't sure whether it was meant to be a real punch or a bluff. Now I'm going to tell you the whole business. This is what happened."

He told of his interview with Captain Abijah, told it succinctly, without elaboration, but omitting nothing of importance. Margaret would have interrupted at certain points, but he would not let her do so.

"There!" he said in conclusion. "That is what Uncle Bije said to me and what I said to him. I didn't say much; I was pretty dizzy after that first smash. Now I want to say a good deal, and what I want you to do, Mother, is to answer me yes or no. Yes, if it should be yes, and no if it shouldn't. Will you do that?"

"Yes, Banks. But first, do let me say that what your uncle said— oh, so much of it—was only partly true. He made mountains out of molehills."

"Did he? I imagined he did, but I want to be sure. Now, Mother, first of all, is it true that we haven't any money?"

"No, of course it isn't. We're not rich—you know that."

"I'm beginning to think I have never known much of anything. According to Uncle Abijah, you have taken pains that I shouldn't know. How much money have you? How much did father leave?"

Margaret hesitated.

"Come, Mother. You must tell me. We're going through with this, you know. How much?"

"Why—why, not a very great deal, dear. Not as much as most people suppose. There was a time when Silas was—when we all thought he was on the way toward being very well off indeed. Then"—she hesitated once more—"then his firm had heavy losses."

"Yes, so Uncle Bije said. And he died just at that time."

"Yes."

He nodded reflectively. "Mother," he said, "last night when I was lying awake upstairs there, I got to thinking things over and it seemed to me that what I do know about father I learned from Uncle Abijah and Cousin Hettie and the people in town. I tried to remember what you had told me about him and I couldn't remember much. That seemed queer to me as I thought of it; it seems queer now. Maybe it is my imagination—I did a lot of imagining—but it set me to wondering if there was any reason why you didn't like to talk about father—to me, anyhow. Is there any such reason?"

"No," was the agitated protest. "Oh, no, no, Banks! You mustn't say that. Please don't say it, or think it. Don't! You make me feel—oh, wicked."

"Do I? I don't mean to. It just seemed to me—"

"You imagined it, dear. You mustn't think such things. Your father was—why, the whole town knows what he was. They talk about him still—all the older people. He was one of the most able captains that ever—"

"Yes, yes, I've been told all that a thousand times. Do you suppose I have listened to Cousin Hettie's hymns of praise for twenty years without learning how smart he was? Uncle Abijah was glorifying him last night. It just seemed to me, as I thought it over, that you yourself never told me as much about him as other people have. Look here, Mother, there is no real reason why you haven't, is there?"

"Banks, please don't say such things."

"He was always good to you, wasn't he?"

"He was always a kind, generous husband. I was a very proud girl when I married him. You see, most people thought he was marrying beneath his station. He was a Bradford, and the Bradfords have always been prominent in Ostable County; and besides, even then he was counted a clever, rising man. I was a Banks, and my people, most of them, have been just everyday folks. Perhaps," she added, smiling tremulously "that may be why I haven't praised him as much as Abijah and Hettie are always doing. I may have been a little jealous, you see. I have heard it said that his marrying me, when we were both so young, was a mistake on his part. Perhaps I didn't want my son to think of his mother as—as a mistake."

Banks's eyes snapped. "They'd better not call you a mistake while I'm around," he growled. "Well, all right, Mother. It was just my fancy probably. But now about father. I knew about his going to sea when he was fourteen and being a captain when he was twenty- two, and being taken into the firm of Trent, Truman & Bradford before he was thirty. I knew all that. But last night Uncle Bije started to tell me about things I hadn't known. He told me only a little; those selectmen came just as he got started on that part. I wish you would tell me the rest. About those losses the firm had, and—and that sort of thing."

Margaret Bradford was silent for a moment. Her fingers as they lay in her lap were trembling. But her voice, when she spoke, was calm.

"Very well, dear," she said. "I will try and tell you what I know. The firm of Trent & Truman was very successful indeed in the 50's. Then came the Civil War and the privateers, and they lost some ships, just as so many firms did. Business was ever so much better after the War, and when your father was taken into partnership every one thought it a wonderful thing for him. But it wasn't so wonderful. The shipping business—with sailing vessels, I mean— was close to its end, although of course none of us realized it. Freights grew scarcer, the steamers were taking most of them, there was a wreck or two, and—well, there came a time when the firm was in a critical situation. I don't know all the details—Abijah knows them better than I do—but at any rate, your father and his partners were terribly worried; there were notes to be met and all sorts of things like that. Finally Silas decided to take command of one of their ships himself to go to sea again. The vessel was the Golconda, and she sailed from New York around the Horn to San Francisco. She caught fire off the California coast and burned. The officers and crew took to the boats and landed safely. Your father went to San Francisco and a month later he—died there."

"Yes. By accident, something to do with a gun he was handling. Of course, I know that much."

His mother drew a long breath. "It wasn't a gun, it was a pistol," she said. "No one knows exactly how it happened. He was in his room at the hotel, cleaning the pistol or handling it in some way, and it went off. The mate wrote that to Mr. Trent. His body was sent home and—well, that is all, Banks. I have told you this before. I don't talk about it unless I have to. You can understand why, dear."

He nodded absently. "Yes," he said, "I understand that, I guess. But there is a lot I don't understand. Why did father decide to go to sea again; take command of this ship—what was her name?"

"The Golconda. Why, to save money for the firm, I suppose. And it was a very important voyage; her cargo was very valuable. Uncle Abijah will tell you all about it, if you ask him."

"I'll ask him sometime. You see, Mother, what still puzzles me is this money business. Trent, Truman & Bradford were in a bad way before this Golconda burned. They must have been a lot worse off afterward. She was a total loss, wasn't she?"

His mother hesitated. "Not exactly," she said. "She and the cargo were insured."

"I see. But this is what gets me: Old Benjamin Trent, over at Ostable, was a very rich man when he died; so was Elijah Truman, and his widow is rich now. Oh, well, it doesn't matter much. I remember Uncle Bije did say something about their making fortunes afterward, out West, somehow. But here we are again, just where we started. How much money did father leave you?"

Margaret looked up. Again she tried to smile. "Well," she said slowly, "he left me this house and land and another piece of land in South Denboro. I sold that afterward. And his life was insured for five thousand dollars. Then—oh, there was more than that, of course!"

"How much more?"

"There was his interest in the firm. I got something from that later on. And he had some investments—some railroad stock and some bonds."

"Mother, you are just dodging. What I want to know is just how much money we have had to live on since father died. You must tell me. If you don't Uncle Abijah shall."

Margaret sighed. "I have had an income of about sixteen hundred a year, most of the time. Oh," she added hastily, "it was enough. We have got along. It doesn't cost me much to live here."

He was staring at her, aghast and incredulous. "Sixteen hundred a year!" he gasped. "And with that you have paid my bills at college and in law school and kept this house? Mother, you're crazy!"

She shook her head. "No, no, I'm not," she protested. "What I got for the South Denboro land paid your college bills, or most of them. That was an extra, you know."

"But the law school?"

"Well," she faltered, "I—I have used a little of the principle for that. Not a great deal, but some. You see, dear, you had to have your education. You always wanted to be a lawyer, and I was determined you should be."

His face was flushed. "Had to have my education," he repeated slowly. "And I had it. And you have been starving yourself and— and— My God, Uncle Bije was right. He was right!"

"Oh, no, no, he wasn't! If he told you I was starving, or any such ridiculous thing as that, he ought to be ashamed. Do I look as if I starved?"

"Hush! Let me think this out, if I can. And here I have been sponging on you and taking your money, going to California on a vacation."

"It was to be your last long vacation. I wanted you to remember it always. Don't you see?"

"I see"—bitterly. "Mother, I—oh, how could you? If it hadn't been for Uncle Abijah I suppose you would have let me go on for a year or two more; let me drag you to Boston."

"No, no, Banks, I intended to tell you that I didn't think I could do that."

"But you would have let ME go."

"I would have let you do anything that was best for you. You are the one interest I have in life and nothing—NOTHING shall stand in your way if I can prevent it. If you are sure that this place in your friend's father's office is your best chance to get on in the world, you must take it. You must, Banks. And you mustn't worry about me. I am capable of taking care of myself, perfectly capable. I am almost sorry I let you talk with Abijah last night. He told you a lot of foolish things, as I was afraid he might."

He was not listening. He was thinking, and now he spoke his thoughts aloud. "I wouldn't have believed it," he vowed. "I wouldn't have believed that a fellow as old as I am could have been such a blind jackass. To think that I have never even suspected; never asked a question. Just taken it for granted that we were comfortably fixed and—and breezed along, while you— Sixteen hundred a year! Good Lord!"

He turned away and began pacing the floor. His mother, anxiously watching him, saw him stop in his stride and look toward the window. She, too, looked.

"Who is it?" she cried hastily. "Is it—oh, I hope it isn't! Now, of all times!"

He groaned. "Your hopes are wasted," he muttered in utter disgust; "it is. Mother, you'll just have to excuse me. With all I've got on my mind this minute I can't stay here and listen to her chatter. I'm going out."

She lifted a hand. "Please don't, Banks," she begged. "She'll hear you go and she'll suspect that you are running away. And I shall have to answer more questions. Stay a little while."

He was still hesitating when the side door opened. There was a swish of skirts, a brisk step, and Cousin Hettie marched into the sitting room.

Marched is the only fitting word. The progress of Miss Henrietta Bradford was always martial. She was the daughter of Abner Bradford, younger brother of the father of Abijah and Silas Bradford. Uncle Abner earned his first dollar when he was eleven years old; that identical dollar was in his possession when he died. His daughter inherited it and she had it yet. She inherited also the house on the Swamp Road where, except during the fall and winter months, when she rented her upstairs front room to the school-teacher or some other lodger, she lived alone.

She was fifty-eight and a spinster. "Outside of father and Abijah— and poor dear Cousin Silas, of course—I've never seen a man yet I'd give twenty-five cents for," was her scornful declaration. The male population of Denboro was not deeply humiliated by this low estimate. "Show me somethin' Hettie Bradford will give twenty-five cents for," sneered Jotham Gott, during one of the euchre games in Ebenezer Tadgett's back room, "and I'll show you a bargain at seventy-five. And I've generally understood," he added with a grin, "that it took two to make a bargain."

Cousin Hettie marched into the sitting room and, as Margaret had risen from the rocker, she promptly sat down in it. "There!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I got here finally. Such a morning as I've had! Don't say a word! My soul!"

The request—or command—was entirely superfluous. Neither Banks nor his mother had made any attempt to say a word. Margaret was regarding her with an expression of weary resignation which changed, as she caught a glimpse of her son's face, to one of quiet amusement.

"Don't say a word!" repeated Cousin Hettie with even more emphasis. Then, an instant later, "Well? Are you struck dumb, both of you? What on earth's the matter? You haven't opened your mouths since I came in."

Margaret opened hers then. "What is the trouble this time, Hettie?" she asked.

"Trouble! Don't say a word! Is there anything BUT trouble in this vale of tears for most of us? I haven't found much else. You read your Bible, I suppose, Margaret? I hope you do. Of course"— turning toward the other member of the trio—"I don't presume to ask you that, Silie. If half of what I see and hear tell of young folks nowadays is true they don't waste much time on the scriptures. No, indeed! they want livelier reading than that. I've just read—I had to read it, being on the choosing committee for the library; otherwise than that I never would have soiled my eyesight with such a thing, you'd better believe—I've just finished a novel that was sent in on approval by some book-printing people in New York or Boston or somewhere. And really— Written by a woman 'twas, too, and of all the brazen things she must be! About a man who was married to the wrong one, and there was somebody else, of course, who was the right one. And—but there! sometime when we're alone, Margaret, I'll tell you the rest of it, though I shall be ashamed to. When I'd read the last word of that book, thinks I to myself, 'Well, if—' Eh? you're not going away, are you, Silie? I've just got here and I came partly to see you."

Banks was strongly tempted to reply that her getting there was the reason for his leaving. He did not like Cousin Hettie. He considered her the family pest. She insisted upon calling him Silie—because Silas had been his father's name and it was his name, too, and he ought to be grateful for it and proud to use it. As a small boy she made him ridiculous in the eyes of his playmates by screaming "Silie! Silie!" at him from the window when he passed her house. Juvenile Denboro promptly changed this appellation to "Silly," and it had cost him several black eyes and many bruises to prevent being tagged with the nickname. His earliest recollections, the disagreeable ones, centered around Cousin Hettie—her preachments about his behavior in Sunday school, about taking care of his clothes, sitting up straight, like a little man, and not gobbling his food at table. At Christmas she gave him "useful" presents. Firecrackers on the Fourth were wicked wastes of money, and dangerous besides.

And, always and forever, she told him what a wonderful man his father had been and how far short of such perfection he was likely to be. If any one could have made him regard his father's memory with detestation instead of pride that one would have been Cousin Hettie Bradford.

"Why, yes," he admitted, not too graciously, "I was going out. At least I was thinking of it."

"What for, this early in the morning?"

"Oh, I—I had errands uptown."

"Whereabouts uptown?"

Margaret came to his rescue. "You said you were in some sort of trouble, didn't you, Hettie?" she suggested.

"Did I? Yes, I guess likely I did. Well, as I started to say in the beginning before you two put me off, if you read your Bible, as I hope and trust you do, you'll remember it tells us that man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. It doesn't tell us that woman is fuller. Didn't think 'twas necessary, I presume likely; anybody—every woman, anyhow—knows that without being told...I'm not going to have my new sitting-room stove put up after all."

"You're not? Why, I thought you had bought it already."

"So I had. For mercy sakes, Silie, come back here and sit down! You make me nervous. Those errands of yours can wait a minute or two, can't they?"

The errands being purely fictitious, Banks had no satisfactory answer ready. He sat, though with reluctance, and in a chair close by the kitchen door. Cousin Hettie went on.

"No," she declared, "I've decided not to put that stove up yet awhile. For much as a year I've been looking forward to buying it and setting it up and enjoying my Item and my library books in comfort, cold winter nights. The old airtight I've got there now is the one father bought years and years before he died, and it leaks smoke all around the pipe and the grate keeps falling down and—and I don't know what all. I've had it fixed and fixed and fixed, but the last time Zenas Hubbard came to look at it he said, 'Hettie,' he said, 'fixing that stove again would be like putting iron hoops on a cracked wooden leg; 'twould cost more than to buy a new one and would be a waste of time besides.' So finally I went in and saw Ebenezer Tadgett and he had a real nice second-hand gas burner, and after considerable beating down—you never want to pay that man his first price for anything—I bought it. And now I can't put it up after all. Do you wonder I'm sick and disgusted?"

It was evident that she expected her hearers to say something, so Margaret said it was too bad. Banks was silent. His thoughts were far away from air-tights and gas burners and his glance wandered toward the kitchen door.

"I should say 'twas," agreed Cousin Hettie. "And it's all on account of that Mr. Payson, the high-school principal. He's had my upstairs front room for a year now and he's takin' it again for this coming winter. It's a real nice comfortable room; my own father passed through his last sickness in it, as you know, Margaret, and that shows what sort of room it is, for nobody on earth was more particular about his comfort than father was. Mr. Payson rented it all last winter and never complained about it and— well, it just goes to show you can't be too careful about keeping your affairs to yourself. Last night I happened to tell him I'd bought the new gas burner, and what do you think he said? Said that was nice, because now I could put the old airtight up in his room. The Franklin grate that's there now, he said, was no good— those were the words he used, no good—and most of the evenings last winter he had to go to bed to keep warm. Did you ever in your born days!"

Mrs. Bradford said she never did. There was a twinkle in her eye as she glanced at her son. He did not notice the twinkle; his chair had been hitched perceptibly nearer the door.

"I GUESS you never did!" agreed Cousin Hettie. "Well, you can imagine I didn't sleep much after I had that said to me. I just laid awake thinking and thinking, and I came to the conclusion there was only one thing to be done—I must do without my new stove for this winter. Perhaps Ebenezer Tadgett will take it back—I don't know, but anyhow, I must do without it and get along best I can with the old air-tight."

Margaret looked puzzled. "But why?" she asked.

"Why? I should think it was plain enough why. That air-tight can't be fixed for less than seven dollars. Zenas Hubbard named seven and a half as his figure, and it can't be used at all unless it is fixed. If I wouldn't have it fixed for myself, is it likely I'll do it for that Payson man—and pay for a new stove besides? I shall tell him I've decided I can't afford the new gas burner, and that I'll get along with the air-tight and he must get along with the Franklin. It's a shame, but that is how it always is. I'm a lone woman and every man in this town knows it and would take advantage of me, if I was soft-minded enough to let 'em. But you can't imagine how disappointed I am about that gas burner. It is such a nice stove, and hardly worn at all. Why, the hot-water urn on top isn't even cracked."

She was out of breath by this time, and she finished the recital of her grievances with a groan and a shake of the head.

"Well, there," she added a moment later. "That's all of that, I guess. I just had to come and tell you about it. It's a dreadful thing to be alone in the world and have to do your own planning and figuring and—and all like that. You can be thankful you had such a husband as you did have, Margaret Bradford, even though an all- wise and seeing power took him away from you. If Silie here only turns out to be half as— Oh, that reminds me! It was what I came here to talk about, mainly. Silie, what in the world were you and your Uncle 'Bijah up to last night?"

Banks, started out of his reverie by this unexpected question, stared at her. "Up to?" he repeated.

"Why, yes. I've been told that you and he were shut up together in his room at the hotel for much as an hour. That's the story; perhaps it isn't true."

Banks said nothing. If Miss Bradford was expecting him to ask the name of her informant she was disappointed. He opened his lips as if to speak, then frowned and closed them tightly. He and his mother exchanged looks. Cousin Hettie went on:

"Of course," she said, with a toss of the head, "it isn't any of my affairs. I was a little surprised to hear it, that's all. Considering that so far, since you came back home, you haven't as much as dropped in to say howdydo to any of your relations, I— Ah, hum! never mind. It will be my turn some day perhaps. When your father got home from a voyage one of the first things he always did was to run right around to my house. But times change, and manners change with 'em, I suppose. It's all right. I'm not jealous; I haven't got a jealous disposition, I'm thankful to say."

"It wasn't a social call, Hettie," Margaret explained. "Banks and his uncle talked over a business matter, that's all."

"Business matter? Dear me! That sounds terribly important."

Banks put in a word. "It was important," he said curtly.

"I want to know! What sort of business did you talk about?"

"Oh—well, the law business."

"Law business! Goodness gracious! Nobody in our family is going to law, is there?"

"Yes; I am."

It was a perfectly innocent if not very illuminating reply, but it had a curious effect. Miss Bradford caught her breath and leaned forward in her chair.

"You are!" she repeated sharply. "YOU are? What's all this? What has Abijah Bradford been saying to you? Has he— What are you talking about? Come! I want to know."

Banks and his mother gazed at her in amazement. Her hands were clenched and her tone was shrill and insistent.

"Why, Hettie!" protested Margaret. "What—"

"I want to know what is going on behind my back. That's what I want to know."

"There, there!" It was Banks who interrupted. "Hush, Mother, I'll tell her; it isn't any secret. Nothing is going on behind your back, Cousin Hettie. Uncle Bije and I were talking over plans for my practicing law. I'm a lawyer now, and the important question is where I shall begin to practice, or try to. That's all. There is no conspiracy, and nothing for you to get excited about, so far as I can see."

Cousin Hettie's odd and, to Margaret and her son, inexplicable agitation, suspicion—whatever it might be—was apparently not yet entirely allayed. She regarded her young relative steadily for a long instant. Then she turned to Margaret and looked at her.

"Humph!" she mused. Then addressing Banks, "So that's all 'twas, eh? Just about you practicing law? You're sure there was nothing else?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said impatiently. "What else could there be? No one is trying to put anything over on you, if that's what you're afraid of."

Miss Bradford's thin bosom rose and fell with a long sigh, apparently of relief. "Well, all right," she said. "Only—well, it does seem kind of funny that I never heard a word about all this planning, or whatever 'twas, that's been going on between you and Abijah. I'm a Bradford as much as the rest of you, or I always supposed I was. Why didn't I know?"

"Oh, because nobody knew it. I didn't know myself, until last evening, that Uncle Bije had any plans for me. Mother, I'm going now."

He rose, but Cousin Hettie lifted a hand. She was smiling now, after a fashion. "Oh, dear!" she groaned. "Dear, deary me! You both think I'm queer in the head, I guess. I don't wonder. It's my poor nerves. Doctor Brand keeps dosing 'em and fussing with 'em but they don't get any better and I'm about resigned to it. It takes next to nothing to get me all upset, and if one thing is surer to do it than anything else it's the very name of a lawsuit. Ever since that Baker man sued father for not paying for that cow he never bought and I had to stand up over in that Ostable court and testify before everybody, I— Oh, dear! I'm sorry if I scared you. I'm all right now...Yes, yes, Silie, of course I know you're a lawyer, a real lawyer, and it makes me proud to think of it. But it's so hard to realize that you're a grown-up man and— and all like that...So you and Abijah were making plans together? That's awfully interesting. What did you decide? Do sit down again and tell me all about it, that's a nice boy."

But the nice boy refused to sit. "We didn't decide anything," he replied. "When anything is decided you shall know about it; so will every one else. Mother, I'm going out. I may be back at dinner time or I may not. I'll be all right, wherever I am, so don't fret."

"But Banks, where are you going?"

"I don't know exactly. Just out around—somewhere by myself. See you later. Good morning, Cousin Hettie."

He walked to the hatrack in the entry. Miss Bradford called after him to say that if he were going uptown she was going that way herself in a minute or two. Apparently he did not hear her, for the outer door closed behind him.