The Rich Little Poor Boy Part 19

But there she stopped, blushing painfully. To cover her embarra.s.sment, she dashed into her closet room and brought out Let.i.tia, ragged dress and all, as if the sight of the poor beloved would speak for her more eloquently than she could for herself.

Which proved to be the case. For One-Eye stared at Let.i.tia till that single eye fairly bored through her sawdust frame. Next he took her up and turned her about, his lips shut tight. His mustache stood up, he gulped, and his hand trembled.

Then suddenly he rose. "Got t' go," he announced.

He went. He forgot to shake hands. He pulled the big hat far down across his forehead. He stubbed his toe on the doorsill.

Cis and Johnnie hung out of the window a long time after, talking low together, so as not to be overheard by the Gambonis, for the early December night was surprisingly warm, and the building had all its windows up. They speculated upon One-Eye's conduct. Johnnie was distressed--and on two scores: first, that One-Eye should have gone so abruptly; second, that Cis, when given a chance to ask for something, had not named a gift worth having, such as another book.

"But you've got more books now than you've had time to read!" she protested. "And anyhow One-Eye is sure to give you a Christmas present."

She was not cast down, but smiled at the sky, and talked of the new doll, which she intended to name--Edwarda.

"Should think you'd name her after One-Eye," went on Johnnie; "long's he's givin' her to you."

"_How_ could I name her after him?" she retorted. "What would I call her?--Two-Eyes? I'm not going to spoil her by giving her a crazy name."

Eager to have her dreams to herself, she forsook the window for her own room, and shut the door.

The next morning, while Johnnie and Grandpa were returning from the field of Gettysburg, here, ascending from the area came the shrill voice of the Italian janitress: "Johnnie Smith! Johnnie Smith!"

That meant the postman. And the postman was an event, for he came not oftener than once in three months, this to fetch a long, official envelope that had to do with Grandpa's pension. But the pension was not due again for several weeks. So what did the postman have to leave?

Bursting with curiosity, excitement and importance, Johnnie very nearly broke his neck between his own door and the brick pave. And here was a letter addressed to himself: Johnnie Smith, in Mr. Thos. Barber's flat.

Then the street and the number, the whole having been written on a typewriter.

"Why--! Why--! Who can it be from?" Johnnie muttered, turning the letter over and over, while heads popped out of windows, and sundry small fry gathered about Johnnie and the postman.

"Maybe you'd find out if you opened it," suggested the latter, who was curious himself.

Johnnie opened; and drew forth a single large page, white and neat, when it was unfolded. Upon it was written a short, polite note which read:

"_Dear Johnnie, I'm going away for a few days. Cannot tell just when I shall be back. Take care of yourself. Yours very respectfully,--_" Here One-Eye had signed his name.

The signature was hard to make out. Not only because it was badly written but because there was something the matter with Johnnie's eyes.

"One-Eye's goin' away," he told the postman, not ashamed of the tears he wiped on the back of a hand. "Oh, my goodness!" He climbed the stairs with his square little chin on his breast.

Cis made him feel worse when she came home. Because instead of being equally cast down, she was full of criticism. "My! One-Eye never wrote that!" she declared. "A stenographer fixed that all up for him. Sure as you live."

This was too much. Johnnie jerked the letter out of her hand. He caught up Let.i.tia by one dwindling arm and cast her headforemost into Cis's room. And there is no telling what else might not have happened if, at that moment, the janitress had not begun to call again, though this time it was Cis she wanted. And what she had for Cis was a heavy pasteboard box that was nearly as long as the table. In the box, wearing a truly gorgeous dress and hat and shoes, was--Edwarda.

"A Princess of a doll!" cried Cis, dancing with happiness.

Later on, when she had put Edwarda to bed for at least the tenth time, she came to comfort Johnnie. "Never mind," she said, "he'll be back. And while he's gone, you can play he's here." Then with a far-away look in her blue eyes, "What would _I_ do if I didn't pretend _HE_ was here!"

Johnnie groaned. The idea of her bringing up the Prince in the face of such grief as his! It made him sick. He pinned the letter inside his shirt. He dragged out the mattress and flung himself down. He would not let her light the lamp. He yearned for the dark, where he could hide his tears.

Oh, everything was swept away! Everything!

And even the dog, crowding close against him comfortingly, could not lessen his pain.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HEAVEN THAT NEARLY HAPPENED

JANUARY came in furiously, peppering with sleet, bombarding with hail, storming with snow-laden winds. Day after day the sun refused to show himself, and the kitchen was so dark that, whenever work had to be done, the lamp was lighted.

In such weather Johnnie was cut off from the outside world; was almost like another Crusoe. Having no shoes and no overcoat, he would not venture out for a walk with his dog. Fuel was so costly that he could not even open the window to take his taste of the outdoors. His feet were wrapped up in bits of blanket, and his thin arms were covered by footless, old stockings of Cis's, which he drew on of a morning, keeping them up by pinning them to the stubby sleeves of the big shirt.

Many a day Big Tom stayed at home, dozing away the time on his bed. Such days were trying ones for Johnnie. Seated at the kitchen table, his large hands blue with the cold, hour upon hour he twisted cotton petals on wire stems to make violets--virtually acres of them, which he fashioned in skillful imitation, though he had never seen a violet grow.

Violet-making tired him, and often he had a stabbing pain between his shoulder blades.

But when Barber was away, the gloomiest hours pa.s.sed happily enough. He would finish his housework early, if none too well, scatter the oilcloth with petals and stems, as if this task were going forward, then pull the table drawer part way out, lay his open book in it, and read. It was _The Last of the Mohicans_ which claimed all of his interest during the first month of that year. And what the weather was outside mattered not a jot to him. He was threading the woods of spring with Cora and Alice, Uncas and Heyward.

It was later on, during February, when _The Legends of King Arthur_ were uppermost in Johnnie's mind, that the flat had a mysterious caller, this a bald-headed, stocky man wearing a hard black hat, a gray woolly storm coat, and overshoes. "You Johnnie Smith?" he asked when the door was opened to his knock.

"Yes, sir."

The man came in, sat without waiting to be asked, and looked around him with a severe eye. Johnnie was delighted at this unusual interruption.

But Grandpa was scared, and got behind Johnnie. "Is that the General?"

he wanted to know, whispering. "Is that the General?"

"Is your father home?" asked the strange man finally.

"My father's dead," replied Johnnie.

"Ah. Then Mr. Barber's your uncle, eh?"

"He ain't no relation," declared Johnnie, proudly.

The clock alarm announced the hour of five. Johnnie fed the fire and put the supper over. Still the man stayed. Once he got up and walked about, stared into the blackness of Big Tom's bedroom, and held the lamp so that he might have a look at Cis's closet. He grumbled to himself when he put the lamp down.

All this made Johnnie uneasy. He could think of only one reason for such strange and suspicious conduct. The books! Could _this_ by any chance be Mr. J. J. Hunter?

When Barber came in, it was plain to Johnnie that the longsh.o.r.eman knew instantly why the man had come. At least he showed no surprise at seeing him there. Also, he was indifferent--even amused. After nodding to the visitor, and flashing at him that dangerous white spot, he sat and pushed at first one cheek and then the other with his tongue.

"My name's Maloney," began the man, using a severe tone. "I'm here about this boy."

Johnnie started. The man's visit concerned himself! He felt sure now that it was about the book. He wondered if there would be a search.

Barber thrust out his lip. "You're a long time gittin' here," he returned impudently. And laughed.

At that the man seemed less sure of himself. "Don't know how I've missed him," he declared, as if troubled.

"Seein' he's been right here in this flat for five years," said the other, sneeringly.