Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Scout of the Air - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Back and forth, back and forth. The minutes dragged away; eleven o’clock arrived—half past eleven. The old-fashioned blinds began to rattle; it was blowing up outdoors. Then a patter of rain. A window shade flapped noisily. “I think the rain must be coming into the dining room,” said Mrs. Gilmore. It afforded some relief to her taut nerves to bestir herself to close the window where the rain was indeed blowing in.

At last a familiar footfall was heard on the pavement, and the still more familiar sound of hurrying feet on the steps and porch. Then a boy of about fifteen burst into the room, scaling his cap into a chair. “Oh, boy, but it’s starting to pour,” he said. “A big limb of a tree blew down up the street. The tin sign in front of Tony’s blew across the way and all the way down to the corner—I went chasing after it. If I hadn’t dragged it back to him, I’d have been here before the worst of it. Did I run!”

These were his specialties, doing favors and running. Whatever his shortcomings he was a cheery, good-hearted boy. He did not act as if he thought a serious charge was awaiting him. Be that as it might, there could be no question of his ability at running. He could make a home run where another boy would not get past second base. He had a medal for winning a running match. People said he was a little devil; whether they meant in his running or in his conduct, these pages must show. And he had that rare combination of brown eyes and blond hair.

“My dear, you shouldn’t throw your wet cap in the chair,” said his mother, picking it up. “Why, it’s simply saturated.”

“I’ll say it is.”

“Are your feet wet?”

The boy’s father put a sudden end to these considerations by a brisk onslaught. Thrusting his hands deep into his trousers pockets as if to encourage frankness and to issue a warning that he would stand no nonsense, he paused, then wheeled about, confronting the boy.

“Markle,” said he (usually he called the boy Mark, and his use of the full name was ominous), “Markle, where have you been these last five days?”

“Five—why, what’s the matter?” asked the boy. He had certainly been taken unawares and was obviously perturbed.

“Now Markle,” said his father tersely, “let’s get right down to facts. I want the plain truth and if you don’t tell it you’ll take the consequences. You haven’t been to school all this week. Yesterday afternoon, your mother came home and couldn’t get in the house; she never told me this until tonight. She ’phoned to the school to ask them to send you home with your key, and they told her you hadn’t been there all week—thought you were sick.”

“Your teacher said that Larry Vreeland told her you were ill, dear,” said Mrs. Gilmore. “I do think you might have...”

“Well,” Mr. Gilmore snapped, “a boy who stays away from school a week wouldn’t scruple to ask another boy to lie for him. Now what I want to know is, where were you and what were you doing?”

“I—can’t—I——,” the boy began.

His father cut him short. “I didn’t say much when you played truant one afternoon,” he stormed, “and I’m not going to go into the past. But I want to know...”

“You don’t give him the chance to tell you,” Mrs. Gilmore interposed, gently.

“Well, now he has his chance. One—whole—week—you’ve been away from school, deceiving your parents, misleading the school authorities, loafing around, I suppose. Now what have you got to say for yourself?” Mr. Gilmore snapped, angrily.

“We just don’t understand it, dear,” said Mrs. Gilmore. “Tell us frankly, what have you been doing?”

“Going off with your books every morning,” said Mr. Gilmore, contemptuously; “and I understand you haven’t been coming in until pretty near supper time every night. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’ve been living a lie? Well, I’m not going to have you utter any lies now. Where have you been, and what have you been doing?”

This was a crucial moment in the boy’s life. The momentary diversion afforded by his elder brother’s sauntering into the room gave him time to think. There was that in the elder boy’s cynical smile which bespoke pleasant anticipations; he was going to enjoy the rumpus. Not that he was glad that Mark’s delinquency had been discovered; his smile seemed to express contempt of the boy’s inability to “get away with it.” If he could be said to have any sympathy at all, it was for his younger brother rather than for his parents. But he had little sympathy. This was a sporting event and he was going to enjoy it. He lounged into a chair, lighted a cigarette, and appeared not to be listening. He looked bored.

“I didn’t tell you any lies and I’m not going to,” Mark said, finally. “I told Larry Vreeland that I couldn’t come to school until...”

“You couldn’t!” stormed his father. “Well, why couldn’t you? Ball playing——fishing?”

“There wouldn’t be anybody to play with in school hours,” Edgar suggested.

“Well, what was it then?” Mr. Gilmore fairly roared. “One—whole—week, lost at school! Now what have you got to say for yourself?”

“I admit I haven’t been to school and I’m not going to tell why,” the boy answered, nervously, but with a certain fine resolve.

His father seemed staggered.

“You admit! Well, well! And you’re not going to tell! Now see here, young man, I want no nonsense. I want to know what you’ve been doing this last week. Come now, out with it!”

“I don’t want to tell and I’m not going to,” said the boy, firmly.

“You had better tell your father the truth, dear,” Mrs. Gilmore encouraged.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell the truth; I said I’m not going to tell at all.” He probably thought that by this nice distinction he was saving his self esteem.

But his father was in no mood for quibbling. For just a moment he paused, perplexed how to handle this situation. Then he clapped his hands suddenly and vigorously, with an ominous air of finality. “All right, sir, that ends it. Off you go to Military School. If you won’t tell what you do, you’ll go where they can see what you do. So I guess that’s about all and you can march upstairs to bed. I’ll have news for you by tomorrow night. Don’t want to and are not going to, eh? Well, we’ll see about that. Now you march upstairs to bed.”

The boy stepped forward and kissed his mother goodnight; his eyes were brimming. “Dearie,” she said, as she drew him toward her, “please tell your father why you stayed away from school so long. Please do, before you make matters worse.”

“Sure, spill it,” said Edgar. “I bet it had something to do with exams. So long as you’re caught with the goods, kid, you might as well tell why.”

Mark turned to his brother and gave him a look that was at once wistful and pleading. He then hurried from the room and as he plodded up the stairs, they heard him gulp once or twice.