From School to Battle-field: A Story of the War Days

by Charles King

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Another week began. Pop's boys gathered on Monday morning, and the firstquestion on every lip was for Snipe, and all in vain. He had disappearedas from the face of the earth. Shorty looked an inch shorter and severalpounds lighter. His chatter was silenced, his young heart heavy as lead.He had had two miserable days, and there were more before him. He hadbeen closely questioned, both at home and at the Lawrences', over andover again, as to all their haunts and habits, which he and poor Snipehad shared in their leisure hours, and stoutly he maintained that neverhad Snipe entered a pawnshop while they were together,--never had hementioned such a thing. The one piece of information he could give, thatwent to confirm the suspicions attaching to the missing boy, was thatduring the three weeks previous to his disappearance George had seemedto have much more money than usual. He had ordered a new pair of shoes,had bought some collars and neckties, had "stood treat" two or threetimes, and had got Shorty to go with him to a great clothier's, muchaffected by the school, to try on some overcoats. He had totallyoutgrown the one he brought from home two years previous, and was goingwithout one, and seemed divided in his mind whether to buy a new one forwinter or a new suit of clothes. Another thing Shorty had to tell wasthat of late Snipe had missed several evenings when Shorty expected him,or had come very late and said he had been of an errand. Of course, itwas now apparent to poor Mrs. Lawrence that her nephew's suddenlydiscovered crimes were all due to her intrusting him entirely to Shortyand his kindred, and Mr. Park was oracularly severe in his comments onyouthful depravity of so glaring a character that it could be satisfiedwith no association less disreputable than that of the rowdies of thefire department. He went so far as to make some such assertion toShorty's uncle, who was called into a conference, and this was lucky forShorty,--one of the few lucky things that happened to him that sorrowfulwinter. Ordinarily he would doubtless have been made the recipient ofseveral lectures of the same tenor as Mr. Park's, only less radical, butthe moment Park ventured to assert that his step-son had been ledastray, and that Shorty's kindred had shut their eyes to the boys'misdoings and let them go their wicked ways, he stirred up the wholetribe and put them on the defensive. Uncles and aunts might even havethought somewhat as did Park, but not after he laid his accusation attheir door. Shorty submitted his whole cabinet of possessions to provethat nothing of his was missing, except one pair of gold sleeve-links,which he had lent Snipe, and gladly lent him. "If Snipe ever stole, whydidn't he steal my watch?" he chokingly asked. "It was as good as Joy's,and hadn't any name on it, as his had, and he could have sold iteasier." All the evidence in creation couldn't make that butt-headed boybelieve that Snipe was a thief. What he probably _had_ stolen, sincethey were missing from his room, were his school-books of previousyears, a set of Marryat's novels that had belonged to his father, andhis father's old shotgun, which he had brought to New York with him, andhad no use for whatever. Perhaps he was thinking, poor fellow, ofselling his father's old watch, a bulky, yellow "turnip," too big forhim to wear, in order to get the money to buy those sorely neededclothes. Shorty well remembered Snipe's story of how his mother criedduring that summer's vacation because she could give him so little whenhe needed so much; but Park's dominion was absolute. "That boy mustlearn the value of money," he constantly said. "He must know as I knewwhat it is to plan and contrive to make five cents do the work oftwenty-five. _Then_ he may amount to something." Park said the boy'sclothes were better than he wore in his school-days, when he had tosweep shop and make the fires and sleep in an attic, without a curtainto his window or a rag to the floor. Shorty began to realize at last howgreat must have been Snipe's temptations, and still he wouldn't believehe stole. Even the sight of Seymour's pencil failed to convincehim,--even the fact that Snipe had certainly run away, if indeed he hadnot made away with himself.

  But in the class there was gloom and sadness almost equal to Shorty's,and by Monday noon all the story was out and much besides. Nothing couldexceed the virtuous amaze of Briggs. He always had suspected Lawton,"but you fellows would not believe." Nothing more sardonic than Hoover'sgrinning face could be imagined. His blinking eyes seemed fairly to snapwith comfort over the contemplation of Lawton's turpitude. By this timeit was being asserted that Snipe had stolen his aunt's diamonds, Joy'swatch, and every missing item, big or little, that had disappearedduring the three years of his membership in the school. John, thejanitor, was overhauled, questioned and cross-questioned. He dodged,parried, broke away, but by implication confessed that he found out thatLawton was going to a certain pawnshop on Third Avenue, and had beenthere two or three times within the previous month. Park paid the schoolanother visit that afternoon and had brief conference with the Doctor,looked steadily and with stern disapproval at poor Shorty, sittingmidway down the line and drifting gradually towards the foot. The FirstLatin took Park's measure, as they had Meeker's, and disapproved of him.They wondered would he attempt to address them. If he did, not oneapplauding hand could there be, except Briggs's or possibly Hoover's, ifhe referred to Snipe's to-be-expected fall. Snipe might have fallen, butif ever a boy was pushed and driven over a precipice he was, said they,and, take them by and large, the First Latin would have gone out oftheir way to shake hands with Snipe or to avoid shaking hands with hisstep-father. Park left before school closed, but to Joy's request of theDoctor, in the name of the class, for news of Snipe, the answer wasgiven that they still had nothing authentic, though they thought theyhad a clue. He had once spent a month with some kinsfolk of his poormother's in Pennsylvania, and Park opined that he would presently beheard of there, where his peculations, he might hope, had not yet becomeknown.

  There were half a dozen of the boys walking together down the avenuethat afternoon, Shorty in their midst. They were plying him withquestions and conjectures. No, he was not going to the Lawrences', hesaid. He would never, probably, go there again. No, he hadn't beenaround among the engine-houses. He didn't at all believe in Snipe'sguilt, and wouldn't believe he was hiding on that account. How did heaccount for Seymour's pencil? He couldn't account for it. All he couldsay was, that he'd bet anything he owned that Snipe wasn't a thief, andsome day they'd find it out, and find out who was. It so happened thatBriggs had gone on ahead with Hoover, the two lads with their headsclose together in eager conference, but at Eighteenth Street he heldback and stood waiting for the little knot of excited boys. Bertram andJoy were of the lot, tall young fellows on whose upper lips the down wassprouting and who on Sundays went to church in their first tophats. Theywere the elders, the senate of the school, and at sight of Briggs theymuttered malediction and cautioned silence.

  "Say, Shorty!" cried the pachyderm, as Pop had named him, "twice lastweek I went to your house and asked for you, and the man said youweren't home. You were up in your room with Snipe Lawton, and I know it.I watched, and saw you come out with him half an hour later. What you'fraid of? Think I was policeman with a search-warrant?"

  The little fellow's blue eyes blazed up, but Bertram grabbed him and Joyturned savagely on the leering tormentor. "Shut up! you sneaking whelp!"he cried, "or I'll smash you here and now!" And glaring and red-faced inhis wrath, Joy looked fully capable of doing it.

  "Why, what have I done?" sneered Briggs. "He's the fellow that stood bythe thief that's been robbing us right and left, and didn't dare let hisown classmate come up in his room."

  "You used to ring the bell and bolt up there the moment the door wasopened, you cad!" answered Joy, "just as you did at my house and othersuntil orders had to be given not to let you in. Get out of the way! Noone in this party wants to be seen in the same street with you."

  "Oh, all right," snarled Briggs. "If you want to run with thieves andpickpockets you're welcome. I don't."

  But now there was a crash on the broad flagstones as the red-labelled,calf-bound, tightly-strapped volumes of Virgil and Xenophon wentspinning to the curb, and, wrenching himself free from Bertram'srelaxing grasp, Shorty flew at Sandy Briggs like a bull terrier at somemarauding hound.
Quick, alert, active, the surest-footed boy in theschool, there was no dodging his spring. The whack of the leather on theflagging was echoed on the instant by the biff-bapp of two knotty fists,and Briggs reeled back before the sudden storm and tumbled into thegutter. Instantly the others threw themselves on Shorty or between thetwo. Briggs bounded up in a fury, the blood streaming from his nose,rage and blasphemy rushing from his swelling lips. He was ready enoughto fight a boy so much smaller, and disdained Julian's prompt proffer ofhimself as Shorty's substitute. A policeman at the Everett corner camesprinting across at sight of the swift-gathering crowd. Joy and Juliansaw him, and grabbing Briggs, darted with him down the stairway to theClarendon's barber-shop. Bertram, Beekman, and Gray snatched up Shortyand Shorty's books and fled with him eastward towards Lexington Avenue.The row was over as quick as it began, but not, alas! the results. "I'llpay that blackguardly little cur for this,--you'll see if I don't!"shrieked Briggs at his captors, and they all knew that even as he coulddissemble, that fellow could hate.

  Late that afternoon the Doctor sat in the midst of his books andmanuscripts in the solemn library, the sanctum in which he rarelypermitted himself to be disturbed, yet he lifted his massive head andlistened eagerly as a servant entered with a message.

  "Send him right in here," said he, throwing down his pen, and the wordswere hardly out of his mouth when in came Shorty, bounding, breathless,excited, and with snapping eyes. "Ha, lad! So you've heard from Lawton!What does he say?" And trembling, rejoicing, triumphing, yet troubled,the youngster read from a letter in his hand.

  DEAR SHORTY,--I couldn't stand it. I had to go, and, please God, I'll never come back, only I want you to know the reason and you won't blame me much. I begged Halsey not to tell the Doctor or anybody what that low sneak of a janitor told him. It's no disgrace to be so poor that a fellow has to pawn his old books and things to get shoes, and you know how I was fixed; you know that I was on my bare feet, almost, and that my clothes wouldn't cover me. I couldn't ask a penny of Aunt Lawrence, and they didn't seem to see or care how I looked. I couldn't worry mother any more, so what _was_ there to do? They gave me a shilling apiece for the school-books, and then I took over my Marryats--I hadn't even read some of 'em--and got twenty cents apiece, and finally father's old shotgun. It was mine; mother had given it to me. It was no use to me. Why shouldn't I sell it and buy clothes? I didn't know it was so costly and valuable, but Aunt Lawrence says now it was worth one hundred and fifty dollars. It came from London. I thought I was lucky to get seven dollars for it. Of course old Binny saw me one night ["Binny is the butler," explained Shorty. "He hated both of us, I suppose, having to answer door so much,--Aunt Lawrence wouldn't let Snipe have a key"], and I guess he must have sneaked after me; but when Halsey told me it was known I visited the pawnbroker's (it wasn't a pawnbroker's. It was just a second-hand store), and demanded to know what I'd sold, and talked of the disgrace and all that, and hinted things about Joy's watch and other missing items I never even heard of, I told him the whole thing, and begged him not to make trouble for me,--I had enough. But he said the Doctor must know, and the Doctor sent me round with him and I showed him the shop, and he rowed the man in charge and said my aunt must be told at once. You never heard such a row as she made,--the shame and the disgrace I'd brought on them all. She could never show her face in society again. Selling my father's books! my father's beautiful gun, that my poor mother had so proudly intrusted to me! Why, Shorty, she drove me nearly mad. Even Halsey tried to stop her after a while, and to say it didn't begin to be as bad as she made it, but she ordered me to my room, and then came up and jawed until I was near crazy, and then when she'd talked herself out up comes Cousin Maud, and she just belched fire and brimstone for an hour; and after dinner that night Uncle Lawrence,--why, he never so much as noticed me generally, and you know how he used to pass us on the street and never see us,--he went on at a perfectly infernal rate. I was an ingrate and a thief and a consorter with the lowest order of humanity (rough on _you_ that was, Shorty), and when he got through I'm blessed if they didn't wind up by sending my little cousin, Queenie,--I always liked her,--but she went on and preached about disgrace and shame just like Aunt Lawrence, and how good they'd all been to me, and how shocking was my ingratitude! She supposed I spent the money in liquor and cigars for my rowdy friends (I did stand treat to milk and custard pie as much as twice); and then Aunt Lawrence comes up again, and read me what she'd written to mother, and that was the last pound. I had five dollars left that I was saving for some clothes, and planning to sell the old watch and get the rest of the money I needed, but she took that away, lest I should steal that too, she said, and I was to be sent back to Rhinebeck as soon as mother could be heard from. She'd been to the Doctor and told him I don't know what, and came back and said the Doctor and teachers as much as declared they thought me the thief that stole Joy's watch. She told me to go and say good-by to you and confess everything, but I shall never disgrace the home where I was so kindly welcomed by setting foot inside its doors again. I've started out for myself, Shorty, dear old boy, and I'll make a living, never you fear, and I'll write to you sometimes when I can do so without being followed or found out. Don't let the fellows think too mean of me. Here's the one thing I've got to confess, and you tell it to Seymour. I found his pencil under the fourth bench that afternoon Beach kept me in two hours for welting Beekman with a putty-ball, and instead of giving it to Beach, as the rule is, I stuck it in my pocket and never thought of it again until next morning, just as I got to school and saw Seymour. I hunted in my pocket and it was gone. I ran home at recess and hunted everywhere, and asked the girl who makes believe do up my room, but couldn't find a trace of it. That was two weeks ago, and all this time I've been hoping to find it, or when I got the money on the watch to buy him another and tell him the whole story. Now I can't do either.

  Good-by, Shorty, dear old fellow! Say good-by to Bonner and Hank and Keating and Joe Hutton. Forty's boys were always kind to us, weren't they? And if any of the class feel that I am not altogether a disgrace to them, give them a bit of love, from yours till death. SNIPE.

  "I couldn't stand it. I had to go."]

  The little reader was almost sobbing when he got through, but the Doctorwas on his feet and listening in undisguised interest and sympathy.

  "But that pencil was found among those things Mr. Park brought to theschool!" he exclaimed. Then, as a sudden light seemed to flash over thecase, he took the missive in his big, white hand and pored over the lasttwo of its many pages. "You have shown this to----?" he began.

  "Nobody, sir. Nobody was at home. I brought it right to you."

  "Then leave it with me and say nothing about it till I tell you. I willsee your grandfather to-morrow."