A Son of the City Part 13

He started, drew on his shoes, half-b.u.t.toned them, slipped into his blouse, with boyish disregard for such matters as bathing, and scampered down the stairs to the dining-room. After a hasty meal of oatmeal and potatoes, he fled to the seclusion of the library. A moment of nervous fumbling with the lock, a rapid turning of pages, and--

"From a son at an educational inst.i.tution, to his father, engaged in business at Boston, requesting--"

But he didn't want to borrow money from Louise. "Honored Parent!" Why, "Honored Louise" would sound too ridiculous for anything.

"From a merchant engaged in the hay and grain business in Baltimore, to a wholesale dealer in New York, complaining that--"

Such prosaic details as hay and grain shortages were not for him. He wanted a love letter, an epistle that would breathe the fire of adoration in every line. Didn't the old book have any? The t.i.tle said _Complete_--What was this?

"From a young man--" He skipped the rest of the heading--such things didn't have much to do with the real contents anyway.

"Beloved--"

That sounded better.

"When first I--"

The door opened suddenly. Mrs. Fletcher gazed down at him in astonishment.

"Haven't you gone to school yet? It's five minutes of nine, now. What on earth have you been doing?"

The book dropped to the floor. A scant five minutes later, he stumbled breathlessly into the school room, only to find that roll call had been finished and that "B" cla.s.s was holding its English recitation. Miss Brown frowned and made a mark in the record book on her desk, and went on with the cla.s.s work. Out came his theme pad and pencil. The fifteen minute study period was his for the composition of that letter and he set to work.

What did a fellow usually say to a girl, anyway? He'd never written one before. He twisted in his seat and caught a glimpse of the adored one's graceful curls, but even with this inspiration, ideas refused to come.

"B" division closed its composition books and began to recite under Miss Brown's guidance,

And she, kissing back, could not know That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

For two long weeks they had been memorizing "The First Snow-Fall," but were not as yet, letter-perfect in the verses. The teacher encouraged them. Twenty odd juvenile voices resumed the choppy, monotonous chant.

John gripped his pencil with new life.

Poetry! That was the only way to express your sentiments! Why hadn't he thought of it before? Once, in third grade, he had composed a masterpiece:

Think, think, what do you think?

A mouse ran under the kitchen sink.

The old maid chased it With dustpan and broom And kicked it and knocked it Right out of the room.

The slip of paper had been pa.s.sed to a chum for appreciation, only to have Miss O'Rourke pounce upon the effort and read it to an uproarious cla.s.s. His ears burned, even now, at that memory.

But there would be no second disaster. He began on the ruled sheet boldly,

"Beloved Louise!"

Then came a pause. Oh for a first line! You couldn't start out with "I love you." That would make further words unnecessary. What did people usually put in poems? All about stars, and the warm south wind and roses. A fugitive bit of verse echoed in his brain. "The rose--" He had it now!

The rose is red, The violet's blue, This will tell you I love you.

To be sure, the bit of doggerel had been inscribed on a card sent him by Harriette in the third-grade valentine box, but Louise need never know the secret of its authors.h.i.+p. And it expressed his feelings with such a degree of nicety!

He scrawled a huge, concluding "John," folded the paper complacently, and waved one hand to attract Miss Brown's attention.

"Please, may I go over to the school store and buy a copy book?"

"Are your lessons prepared for this afternoon?"

"Yes'm."

Consent was given. John rose, with the compact paper hidden in his right hand, and sauntered carelessly down the aisle. At his old desk, he paused with a fleeting glace at Louise as he dropped the note, and walked on into the hall. There he stopped to peer into the room through the half-closed door.

Louise covered the note with one hand and drew it toward her slowly and with infinite caution. He watched her face breathlessly. Curiosity was succeeded by surprise and then by anger. A little toss of her curls, a glance at teacher, and she half turned toward the door. He could see that her face was scarlet. What was she going to do?

Horror of horrors, she stuck out her tongue at him!

The ways of girls were beyond his comprehension. There was no cause for offense in that note. He loved her. Why should she object to being told about it?

He made his way moodily down the broad flight of stairs leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt. There, in the big, dimly lighted, cement-floored playroom, where the children held forth on rainy days, he met a boy from another room, who was likewise in no hurry to return. They hailed each other in subdued tones.

"Been down long?"

"Oh, our teacher doesn't get mad unless you're gone half an hour. Want to play marbles?"

John a.s.sented joyously. His friend chalked an irregular circle on the floor, and presently the room resounded with shouts of "H'ist," and "No fair dribblin'" until the grizzled school janitor sent them flying to their rooms under threat of a visit to the princ.i.p.al's office.

At the doorway, he paused to summon his courage, for time had flown all too rapidly in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Louise showed not a sign of recognition as he pa.s.sed. Miss Brown broke the oppressive silence.

"Where's the copy book, John?"

His lower lip dropped in consternation. His excuse for leaving had been completely forgotten. "A quarter of an hour after school" was the sentence for the offense, and he opened his geography with a feeling of thankfulness that it had not been more.

All about the brick-paved school yard, on the walk, and in the street gutters, were scattered oblongs of blue paper as he scampered from the deserted building at noon. The boy picked one of the handbills up and read with an odd thrill:

Professor T. J. O'Reilley's

PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW

_in_

Three Stupendous, Sidesplitting Parts

_at_

NEIGHBORHOOD HALL,

_Monday, October 4, at 4:15 p.m._

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