Part 19 (1/2)

”Yes, sir,” said Buck, lifting his chin a little. ”I used to be ashamed of it, but--”

”You needn't be,” said the officer. ”It's not what a boy _was_, but what he _is_, that counts nowadays. Goodnight! I wish we had more Britishers like you.”

Then the door closed and the tramp of the policemen and their prisoners died slowly away in the night.

The Broken String

Archie Anderson was lying on the lounge that was just hidden from the front room by a bend of the folding doors. He was utterly tired out, with that unreasonable weariness that comes from what most of his boy chums called ”doing nothing.” He had been standing still, practising for two hours steadily, and his throbbing head and weakening knees finally conquered his energy. He flung himself down among the pillows, his violin and bow on a nearby chair. Then a voice jarred on every nerve of his sensitive body; it was a lady's voice in the next room, and she was saying to his mother:

”And how is poor Archie to-day?”

”Poor Archie!” How he hated to be called ”poor” Archie!

His mother's voice softened as she replied: ”Oh, he's _pretty_ well to-day; his head aches and he seems to be weak, but he has been practising all the morning.”

”He must be a great care and anxiety to you,” said the caller.

Archie shuddered at the words.

”Only a sweet care,” said his mother. ”I am always hoping he will outgrow his delicate health.”

Archie groaned. How horribly like a girl it was to be ”delicate.”

”I think,” went on the caller, raspingly, ”that a frail boy _is_ a care.

One depends so on one's sons to be a strength to one in old age; to help in their father's business, and things like that--unless, of course, one has _money_.”

The harsh voice ceased, and Archie felt in his soul that the speaker was glancing meaningly about the bare little parlor of his father's house.

He could have hugged his mother as he heard her say: ”Oh, well, Trig and Dudley will help their father; and none of us grudge Archie his inability to help, or his music lessons either.”

”I should think his violin and his books and lessons would be a great expense to you,” proceeded the caller.

”Nothing is an expense that fills his life and helps him to forget he is shut away from the other boys and their jolly sports, just because he is not strong enough to partic.i.p.ate in them,” replied his mother, with a slight chill in her voice at her visitor's impertinence.

Presently the caller left, and Mrs. Anderson, slipping through the folding doors, saw Archie outstretched on the pillows. She bent over him with great concern; her eyes read every expression of his face, every att.i.tude of his languid body.

”Archie, you didn't hear?” she asked, pleadingly.

”I'm afraid I did, motherette,” he said, springing up with unusual spirit.

He stood before her, a head taller than herself, his thin form frail as a flower, his long, slim fingers twitching, his wonderful, wistful eyes and sensitive mouth revealing all the artist nature of a man of thirty, instead of a boy of fourteen. He was on the point of flaring out with indignation against the visitor, but his lack of physical strength seemed to crowd upon him just at that moment. He sank upon the lounge again, and with his face against Mrs. Anderson's arm, said: ”Thank you, motherette, for fighting for me. Perhaps even with all this miserable ill-health of mine I can fight for you some day.”

”Of course you will, dear,” she replied cheerily. ”Don't you mind what they say; you know 'Hock' always stands by you, and he's as good as your mother to fight for you.”

”Dear old 'Hock!' Decent old 'Hock!'” he said admiringly. ”He's the best boy in the world, but he is not _you_, motherette.”

”There he is now!” said Mrs. Anderson, as a piercing whistle a.s.sailed the window, followed by a round, red face, a skinning sunburnt nose, and an a.s.sertive voice, saying, ”I'll just come in this way, Arch.” And a leg was flung over the window sill. ”It's easier than goin' 'round by the door.”

”Hock” prided himself on being a ”sport,” and he certainly looked one: thick-knit legs, st.u.r.dy ankles, a short, chunky neck, hands with a grip like a vise, a big, good-natured dimpling mouth, eyes that were narrow and twinkling, muscles as hard as nails, and thirteen years old, but imagining himself eighteen. He had been christened ”Albert Edward,” but fortune smiled upon him, making him the champion junior hockey player of the county, so the royal name was discarded with glee, and henceforth he was known far and wide as ”Hock” McHenry.

The friends.h.i.+p between Hock and Archie was the wonder of the town. Some people said, ”Hock is so coa.r.s.e and loud and slangy, I don't see how Archie Anderson can have anything to do with him.” Others said: ”Archie is so frail and sensitive, and so wrapped up in his music, how _can_ Hock find anything in him that is jolly, and boyish, and congenial?”