Читать книгу William Adolphus Turnpike - William Banks - Страница 5

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Whimple early discovered that William was not a model of integrity, diligence, and rectitude. Though an office boy he had his failings, and William's explanations of them were as curious, but quite as characteristic, as the lad himself.

"When it comes to business matters, Mister Whimple," he said with a dignity that almost upset the young lawyer's effort to appear gravely judicial, "it's me on the level. You can trust me to tell the truth and do the right thing. But when it comes to spinnin' yarns, nobody don't have to b'lieve 'em. Honest, I don't know when I'm telling the truth about 'em myself."

"That is a curious psychological problem, William."

"Gee! is it as bad as that? I hope it ain't fatal."

Whimple smiled. "No," he said, slowly, "and yet, my boy, there is only one way to build up a good reputation. Do you go to Sunday school?"

"Well—not reg'lar. Sunday's the busy time for me."

"Busy! Why?"

"Sure—I take the kiddies out if it's fine, and maybe we don't have the bully times. Say"—his eyes were shining now, and he stood a little closer to Whimple, who was sitting on the table—"there's Pete, he's nine and a holy terror, and Bessie, she's six, and Joey, he's about four, And Dolly—say, Mister Whimple, you'd orter see Dolly, she's got big brown eyes, and brown hair, and a kinder solemn little face. She——"

"Are you spinning yarns now, William?"

"It's between man and man now, Mister Whimple—this ain't no yarn. My Pa says he uster think no man could keep a buncher kids like us and be happy, and now he thinks no man could be happy without a bunch like us, and Ma says it's hard scrapin' sometimes, but she wouldn't be without one of us for a thousand feeter land on the main street, and that's going some."

"What does your father do, William?"

"Pa, he's an express-man, and a good one at that, Mister Whimple. He owns two horses and rigs, and I tell you he keeps agoing all day long, Saturdays too, an' he's a-buyin' the house we're in, an' it ain't no cinch of a job liftin' a mortgage. Many's the time I've heard him say he wished he could lift it as easy as he lifts some of the trunks he carts."

"And what are you going to be, William?"

And William was silent. He flushed a little, toyed with a button of his vest, and finally answered in a low tone—

"I know what I wanter be, and sometimes I think I know how to get there, and sometimes I don't, and I'd rather not tell it just now."

"I hope you'll succeed, William—if your aim is a lofty one."

"Well," drawled William, "it's some high, and Tommy Watson says I'm bughouse, but I tell him he's a bit that way himself."

"Tommy Watson, the auctioneer?"

"Sure—say, Mister Whimple, ain't he a pippin? My Pa says he can make people buy rocks and weep with joy on the bargains they're gettin' in diamon's."

That day Whimple called on Tommy Watson, famed as the peer of auctioneers. To those who counted among his friends and acquaintances, and they were as numerous as the wise "I-told-you-so's" on the day after an election or a prize fight, Tommy was always an inspiration and a delight. His long rambling store, with its wonderful stock of furniture, books, nick-nacks, pictures, all that goes to add zest to the life of the bargain-hunters and auction regulars, was a gathering-place for all classes. Tommy knew and was respected by the men whose names meant power and money; he was beloved by many a wage-earner for the help he gave in the all-important problems of home furnishing, and he was the idol of one William Adolphus Turnpike.

Whimple lost no time in preliminaries. "I've got an office boy, Tommy," he said, "and——"

"One William Adolphus Turnpike, to wit," Tommy broke in.

"The same; he's quite a character, Tommy."

"A good lad though," said the auctioneer, "and a friend of mine."

"He says you know what he wants to be, and that you think he's bughouse."

Tommy laughed. "He spends an hour here every morning," he said.

"What!"

"Turns up as regular as the clock at about fifteen minutes to eight, and stays until he has just time to get to the office on the stroke of nine."

There was a long pause, each man regarding the other thoughtfully. It was Tommy who relieved the situation.

"So far as I know," he said slowly, "he has confided in no one but myself and one other regarding his plans. He's only a boy; he may change his mind any day. But I don't think it. I never knew any one, man, woman, or child, so earnest and determined."

"You know how I'm situated, Tommy; mighty little yet but hope—and, thank God, I've never lost that. It's really a shame, Tommy, paying him the princely salary of two dollars per, but I need him. Tommy, if you think it best not to tell, don't."

Tommy understood. "It might help," he said, "and I can depend upon you to keep silence. Come along."

He led the way to the back of the store, where his bachelor apartments were situated—a bedroom and a library—a most curious library, for Tommy was an omnivorous reader and particularly given to romances.

In one corner of the room was a small bookcase with perhaps fifty books carefully arranged; a little desk and an arm-chair. "That's his corner," said Tommy abruptly; "look at the books."

Whimple looked over the titles rapidly, then more closely. "Plays," he murmured, "the lives of actors, more plays, The Comedian, Garrick, Nell Gwynn," then turning to Tommy and raising his voice, "he wants to be an actor?"

"Yep."

"But many boys think that—almost every boy thinks that."

"But not the way this boy does."

"Yes, but can he read these, Tommy? I never heard any one murder English like William does. Yet he does it so winningly—that's the word, I think—that any jury would acquit him. And his slang—uh!" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Fierce, ain't it?" said Tommy smilingly.

"But can he really read these books?" Whimple reiterated.

"You should hear him and see him tackling the dictionary when he's stuck. Besides—I'm telling you everything mind in confidence—'Chuck' Epstein reads with him."

"Epstein! Whew!—and in his day he was the greatest comedian of them all. And a Jew!"

"And a man," said Tommy Watson with a note of challenge in his voice.

"I've heard much of his kindnesses," Whimple said, "but know him only by sight."

"He's a great friend of mine," said Tommy; "he spends nearly all his mornings here; has done since he retired from the stage. He's getting feeble, but his mind is as clear as ever, and his heart—well, his heart has never grown old."

"William Adolphus Turnpike, Epstein, retired comedian, Tommy Watson, auctioneer," said Whimple softly, and then looking up he found Watson regarding him with a whimsical smile.

"Us three, and no more—Amen, as the Three Guardsmen used to say," Tommy said.

"Well, not exactly in those words," Whimple replied.

"But meaning the same," Tommy retorted, "so what's the difference? Believe me," he went on, "the boy is safe with us. If his ambition sticks—why, he'll land."

"You're a good sort, Tommy Watson," said Whimple warmly as he left the shop, "I wish I could do more to help the boy."

"You're doing lots," said Tommy genially, "lots, and—well, the legal world'll take off its hat to you yet."