"Chet" (Yates)/Chapter 15
I WAS awfully busy during March. Just as soon as there was a breath of Spring in the air, and the kids were starting in with stilts and marbles, we boys got to figuring on our base-ball team. The team had been a dead one the year before, and we couldn't quite make up our minds whether to disband and quit for keeps, or to make another try for it. We had been whipped by every club in the neighborhood last year, and had scrapped among ourselves until I actually believe that every fellow was glad when he struck out, just to spite the team. It was plain to be seen that we'd got to do something different, or else quit entirely. Some of us were for quitting, and some others for beginning early and doing a lot of practice work and trying to get into shape to do some good playing by the time the season opened. I was with the latter bunch; I do hate to give up that I'm beaten!
We were talking it over one day and scrapping, as usual, when one of the boys came out with an idea. There was a fellow in town, staying with some relatives of his, who used to be in the National League, and we boys always walked backward to stare at him, whenever he passed. Well, the boy with the idea put it this way: he said, "Let's go and see if we can't get Mason to coach our club for a few weeks!" What Mason didn't know about base-ball, wasn't worth knowing, for he'd done some great work when he was on the diamond, had been short-stop,—and if anybody has to keep busy, and have his wits about him every second of the time, it's the short-stop in a base-ball game.
Well, sir, we didn't know whether he would be willing to help us out or not, but we appointed a committee to go and see him right then,—and we waited while they went.
They came back on the dead run, and said he'd be glad to do it, and wouldn't charge us a cent, either. You bet we had a regular jamboree celebrating, that afternoon.
So, from that time on, I was kept busy after school and Saturdays, and the month went mighty fast. Bob Stevens was away when we started in to train with our coach, and the day he got back, which was Saturday, he came out and sat on the fence of the lot where we were practising. He didn't say much, but he watched, with his chin in the air, and I knew he was thinking crosswise. When I started home, he walked along with me.
"We're doing pretty good work, don't you think?" I asked.
"Yes," said Bob; "—a lot better than last year."
"We got some good plays in to-day, didn't we?"
"Yep. I'm not going in for ball this year. I brought back a bigger electric engine, and I've got some books, and I'm going into that for all it's worth. I always did intend to be an electrician, and I'm going to put in this Spring and Summer studying and experimenting."
"Good!" I said. "You know a lot more about it than any other fellow in school, now."
"That isn't saying much. I saw a good deal of electric machinery while I was gone, though, and picked up some ideas. Chet, it's the most wonderful thing in the world,—it really is."
"Wish you were going to be on the ball team, though," I said.
Bob shook his head. "I made up my mind not to, before I came home; but if I hadn't, I'd have decided that way to-day."
"You would? Why? Aren't we doing good work?"
"Yes, but I wouldn't let any one boss me the way you let Mason boss you."
My jaw dropped. "Why, for goodness' sake," I said, "what do you suppose we let him tell us what to do, for?"
"Well, I wouldn't let any one tell me, no matter what it was for. I want freedom! I don't give any one the right to tell me what to do,—and you all obey just as meekly as little lambs."
"And why shouldn't we? Doesn't he know a thousand times as much about base-ball as all of the rest of us put together? Hasn't he had the practice, and the experience? That's what we wanted him to help us for,—so he could advise us and tell us the best way to get results. We used to make errors right and left, because we couldn't see far enough ahead in the game;—but he's got us to thinking quick and thinking right. Even if we can't always see at a glance why we should do as he says,—when we've done it, we see the reason in the end; for it always proves to be the very best thing to be done under the circumstances. We don't have to obey him for one second if we don't want to,—we can just quit, but when we look at the sort of work that we're doing this year, compared to what we did last year,—well, you bet you don't see any of us quitting, nor talking back, either! We do what he says, because we know it's the way for us to get to playing winning ball, that's why! I've got plenty of spirit and independence, but I'm not too conceited to do what a person advises, when I've accepted him as a coach just for the very reason that I want him to tell me,—because he understands better than I do."
"Well," said Bob, "it's your own affair, of course, but it looks funny to me to see you taking another person's 'say so.'"
Just then Bess came around the corner on her wheel. She jumped off and we waited for her.
Bob was in one of his critical moods that day, and as soon as she had said "Hello," he started in. "Bess, I heard you'd got to be a Christian Scientist."
"Yes," said Bess, quietly, "I am a Christian Scientist."
I glanced at her. Her face was pink and her eyes were shining, and I saw that her hand was gripped hard on her handle-bar. I knew that it was just about the biggest moment of her life. It was the first time that she had felt worthy to stand up and say,—"Yes, I am a Christian Scientist," and I wanted to pat her on the back.
"Why?" asked Bess, after a moment.
"Oh, nothing," said Bob, "only I was surprised, because I thought you were too clearheaded to look at anybody that way."
"What way?"
"Oh, to worship any human being, and think she is supernatural, and all that, the way Christian Scientists do their leader."
Bess didn't even look cross. "Bob," she said, "who has done more than any one else in the world to help you to be what you most want to be?"
"Edison," said Bob.
"How?"
"Why, by his work, and his study, and his demonstration of what can be done, and his understanding! Look at the time that man has put in, and the experiments, and the successes. He's the most wonderful man alive!"
"And aren't you grateful to him?"
"Am I? Well, say, how many years do you think it would have taken me to find out for myself the things that he's worked out and made plain for me, and so I can use them? I couldn't have done it in a life-time;—but he's put his life-time in it, and I can have for the mere reading, the conclusions of all of his years of study and experiment. Because of his thinking and his investigation, and because he is too generous to keep it to himself, I can start now with years and years of work to the good. Well, I should say I am grateful!"
"And you're not ashamed of studying his methods and demonstrations? You're willing that every one should know that you think him a wonderful man, and that you are indebted to him?"
"Well, I'd like to get up on the house-top and talk about it!"
"But the biggest thing of all is your gratitude, isn't it?"
"It sure is!"
"Well, that is the way that we Christian Scientists feel, Bob. We are grateful more than anything else,—grateful from the bottoms of our hearts to her for giving us the results of her study and work and demonstration. We see the years of wrongly directed effort, and unhappiness, and pain, that she has saved us from, and the start that she has given us toward doing our work right for all time, because she has shared with us the fruit of her labor; and why shouldn't we be grateful, and why shouldn't we be glad to admit that we are indebted to her for the help that has come to us? If you feel that way about Edison, who has helped you in just material things, isn't it natural that we should feel the same, only ever and ever so much stronger, since she has helped us to know how to live best for all time?"
"But," said Bob, "the feeling that I have is just wholesome gratitude,—and a good deal of reverence and wonder, of course,—for one who has accomplished what he has, and given it to the world; but I don't worship him, nor think him supernatural."
"And neither do we either worship our leader, or think her supernatural. Did you ever hear a Christian Scientist say that we did?"
"No."
"Well, don't you think that Christian Scientists ought to know better than other people what they themselves believe?"
"Sure."
"Then listen to one now. Not one Christian Scientist looks upon the author of our text-book with worship, or as in any way supernatural; but they are all wholesomely grateful, and love her and look upon her with the reverence that one must feel for a person who has done such a great work;—and I'll wager you anything you like," she wound up, "that you will never, as long as you live, find a Christian Scientist who will tell you anything different."
"Then why do people say such things?"
"Because they don't know any better and won't take the trouble to find out, and would rather accept the word of an outsider, who says something unpleasant, than that of one who knows, but says only something which has common sense to it. People are always chasing after unusual and surprising stories, and when they can't find them, they manufacture them to order, and pass them on."
"That makes me think," said Bob, laughing, "of a couple of kids I heard talking the other day, while they were looking at my engine. One of them had got Jove and Edison mixed up, and thought that Edison was responsible for thunder-storms. I butted in and tried to tell them that he was just a man like their dad, only a lot smarter; and the one who was sure, came at me with a newspaper clipping that called Edison a 'wizard.' He had looked the word up in the dictionary, so that settled the matter. There wasn't any use in trying to tell them anything, in the face of that piece of newspaper; and the last I heard, they were planning to write to Edison and ask him not to send any thunder-storms this Summer, because their little sister was afraid of them."
We all laughed. The thunder-storm had cleared the air, and when Bob left us at his corner, Bess and I walked on, in a mighty good humor. We'd got to where we could talk over that other girl without a single ugly thought. I'd been reading in the book considerably mornings and evenings, and it sort of seemed as if I'd got into the habit of looking for nice things in people, a good deal as I looked for things I could understand in the book. Anyway, it seemed as if folks were nicer to me, and Mother's face got to smoothing out when I came in, instead of tightening up. I hadn't realized before how many of the lines in her face meant me. It was good to see them smooth out. I wasn't altogether an angel, though,—not by any means.
That day, when I reached home, I passed Mother in the hall. "Chester," she said, "I wish you'd go into Gordon's this afternoon, when you're down town, and get me some samples of wall-paper. I thought I could manage to go down this week and select it, but I haven't been able to find the time."
"What color?" I asked.
"Well, I think blue would be nice, wouldn't it? It's for the southwest room."
"Why don't you get yellow—plain yellow, with a brown frieze? The furniture is oak, isn't it?"
Mother looked pleased. "I believe that would be better," she said.
"Not bright yellow," I said, "—just a sort of creamy yellow, that will go well with the brown."
"All right," said Mother. "Just select it for me, will you, Chet? Never mind about the samples."
"You going to put her in there?" I asked.
"Yes. I'd give her the guest-chamber, only it's north exposure, and would be dismal in winter; and besides, the furnace isn't to be depended upon for that room;—but the southwest room is all right, only the clothes-press is so small," and she shook her head. "But she'll manage all right," she added.
"When's she coming?" I asked.
"The sixth of April."
I didn't wait for any more, but went on upstairs to have a look at the room and see where the desk would go best. I hadn't tried to picture the girl at all, for fear that she would be in some way different, and it might make it harder,—and I'd made up my mind to be just as decent as I could
When I went into the room, it some way didn't look good to me. Mother had been using it for a sewing room, and there were a lot of boxes and baskets setting round. It was awfully small, too. I went and put my head into the clothes-press,—yes, that was small, and the top of it sloped because the attic stairs went up over it. I took a look into the guest-chamber; but that was dismal and chilly, and I shut the door quick and went back to the small room. There was a west window, and there was a south window, and that would make it awfully hot in summer; but there was a good place for the desk, with a gas jet right over it, and that was something. Then I went to my room.
When I got there, I stood and stared around. It was the southeast room, and the biggest room on that floor. I had built in my book-shelves, and made a large square table against the wall, to draw on, and I had everything just the way I wanted it. I surely had taken a lot of comfort in that room.
I looked it over, and then I went and 'peak another sight at the southwest room, and mentally laid it out all over; and then I went back and tumbled my books onto the floor and got a hammer and started to knock off the top shelf. Then I stopped and thought for a while, and then I put the books back.
I went into the southwest room and gathered up Mother's truck and carried it into the guest-chamber and dumped it just anywhere, and moved in the machine, and the boxes and mending chest, and then sized up the room again. After thatwent and dragged in my table and set it by the window, where I had intended the desk to go, and then I hauled in the rest of my stuff, and was just sawing one of the shelves that I'd taken from the guest-chamber clothes-press, to start some new book-shelves, when Mother came in. She only stood and stared for a moment, and then her face flushed up young and pretty. She didn't ask any questions, or bother, she just said,—"Thank you, Chester,"—and said it hard,—and then went on about her business. I tell you, Mother is about the most sensible woman that I know!
After dinner, I went and got Bess to go down town with me to help pick out the paper, and to order the desk sent up; and when we had attended to those things, we went over to our store.
Uncle Rob was just starting out to do some collecting as we went in, and we found that Miss Weed was having a day off, so Dad was all alone for a little while;—and it took only two
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seconds to see that he had one of his re-arranging streaks on. He was pulling things down from the shelves and sputtering about the dust, and as soon as I hove in sight, he said that I was just in time, because he had decided to take down the big Japanese umbrella that hung from the ceiling, and told me to go and get the step-ladder.
I brought it, but I tell you it was something of a trick to carry such a long step-ladder between a hundred and twenty feet of glass show-cases! I set it up under the umbrella and Dad went up.
Now the umbrella was fastened to a hook in the ceiling, and the ceiling is about seventeen feet high,—and Dad is only five-feet-six. The step-ladder was a mighty tall one, though, and Dad went up all right until he was about three steps from the top, and could get hold of the handle of the umbrella. He thought that all he had to do was totake it by the handle and lift it off of the hook, but it wouldn't lift off.
"Shut it down," I said, "and then you can see what's the matter."
He went up another step, holding on to the umbrella to steady himself, and managed to press the spring, and then went down a step until he could get the thing closed tight,—and then he tried to lift it off.
He tried and tried, but he couldn't loosen the wire in the top, which seemed to be tangled into the hook. "That comes of using picture-wire instead of a screw-eye!" he sputtered,—and then he went up another step. That made him so high that the ladder seemed a little wabbly, and he told us to steady it. Bess took the straight side, and I took the step side, and we braced it; but still he couldn't get the thing undone.
He was on next to the top step, and holding onto the umbrella, but he couldn't reach the hook with his hands, and he couldn't lift or jerk the wire off.
"I'll have to go up on the top," he said, "Hold her firm," and he steadied himself with the umbrella and stepped one foot onto the top step; and then, as he still couldn't reach, he drew the other one up very carefully. That top step was dreadfully narrow, so that half of his heels were off on one side, and the most of his toes on the other; but it put him high enough so that he could rest just about an inch of his fingers on the ceiling, and that held him all right, though he was awfully high up.
He took as firm a stand as he could, and braced the fingers of one hand against the ceiling, and with the other began untwisting the wire. He had to change hands every minute or two, to rest, because he was holding his arms up so straight. But at last he had it undone, and commenced to lower it carefully with one hand, while he kept in touch with the ceiling with the other. I reached for it when the wire had let it down far enough, but Dad shouted,—
"Stay where you are—stay where you are! Don't wabble this step-ladder!"
He let it down as far as the wire would take it, and then dropped it. "It's worn out, anyway," he said.
It landed all right, and he put his hand back up to the ceiling while he rested the other, before starting down. Then he put the other back again and stood there.
I thought maybe he was waiting for me to hand him something and had forgotten that he hadn't told me to, and so I said,—
"What you doing?"
"W-wait a minute," he said, and he took down one hand,—and then he put it back and took down the other.
Bess and I stood and stared. "What's the matter?" I said. "Why don't you come down?"
Dad didn't say anything; but he shifted his weight a little, and then he drew one foot off of the step backward and lowered it about an inch,—and then suddenly sort of shook it, the way a cat does when it puts its foot into cold water, and put it back quick.
Bess and I looked at each other. "Why don't you come down?" I asked, again.
Dad didn't swear; but he waited several words long, and then he said, between his teeth,—". . . . I can't."
"Well, why—" I began,—and then I saw the situation. When he went up onto the top, he had steadied himself with the umbrella,—but now it was gone, and there was nothing but the tips of his fingers on the ceiling to hold him. Of course, that was all right as long as he was on the top step; but just as soon as he went to put one foot down, it drew his hands away, and left him trying to balance on one foot on a five-inches-wide step, ten feet in the air,—and Dad never was much of a gymnast.
Bess's eyes met mine, and then we turned our heads away, quick.
"Stop jiggling that ladder, will you?" sputtered Dad; and then he tried the other foot, and got it down farther than he did the first one,—and jerked it back quicker—and just then the front door opened and old Mrs. Davis came in.
I was facing the door, and so was Dad. Mrs. Davis looked around cheerfully as she came in,—and then she caught sight of Dad, up on the step-ladder.
"Oh, there's Mr. Williams," she said, smiling. "Mr. Williams, I want you to show me some solid silver spoons. I want one for my little granddaughter's birthday." And then she waited.
Dad did the wet-cat act again, and changed hands; but didn't say a word.
"You're not too busy, are you, Mr. Williams?" she asked, winningly, not seeing him getting down very fast.
"H-m—well," said Dad, "The—the fact is, I can't come down."
"Couldn't you do that up cheese some other time?" asked Mrs. Davis, sweetly. "Her birthday is to-morrow, you know, and I give her a silver spoon on every birthday." And then she waited again.
Dad's arms were getting tired, I noticed, for he changed hands oftener than he did at first, and his knees kept bending; but he straightened them out quick every time, for they shortened his height.
Mrs. Davis said, "H-m?"
"But you see, I—I can't come down," said Dad.
"You got to finish what you're doing up there now?" she asked, and her voice sounded sorry.
"Chet," said Dad, "hold that ladder still! I say, Mrs. Davis, that I can't come down,—I'm not able,—I—I haven't anything to hold on to;—see—" and he gave his foot another jerk, for the lady.
Mrs. Davis came closer and put on her glasses. "Why don't you just put your foot down on the next step?" she asked.
Dad didn't answer,—he just stood there with his hands above his head, looking like Hercules holding up the world, only it was on the tips of his fingers, instead of his shoulders.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to come in again, if you can't come down now," said Mrs. Davis, and heaved a sigh and trotted out.
"Why don't you do something," said Dad, as soon as the door was shut. "I don't want the whole town to come in while I'm up here!"
"I could come up behind you and hold your ankles," I suggested.
"Don't you dare step a foot on that ladder," shouted Dad.
"I could go in next door and borrow another ladder," said Bess.
"Don't you let go, don't you let go for an instant!" sputtered Dad. "I don't want a bunch of people in here, anyway."
"Perhaps I could stand on a chair—" I began.
"Do it then," said Dad. "Here, didn't I tell you not to let go of that step-ladder? What're you trying to do, anyway?"
Just then the door opened and in came Uncle Rob. "Oh, you took the umbrella down, didn't you?" he said, smiling approvingly. "I think it looks a lot better without it."
No one said anything, and Dad just changed hands.
"Huh?" said Uncle Rob, staring at us.
Bess and I didn't dare speak,—and Dad didn't want to.
"Coming down now?" asked Uncle Rob.
And then Bess and I exploded and Dad howled. I told you he had no sense of humor.
It took Uncle Rob a full minute to grasp the situation,—and then he swallowed something big.
"I'll go and get another step-ladder," he said, and started for the door.
"Don't you do it,—don't you do it," called Dad. "I won't have them all in here. Get up on a chair and hold my feet."
Uncle Rob climbed on a chair and reached up.
"Leggo my ankles,—leggo my ankles," shouted Dad, shaking the step-ladder and trying to kick without moving his feet.
Uncle Rob dropped his hands, and Dad groaned.
I began to get worried about that time; for I knew his arms were nearly breaking, so he couldn't keep them up much longer,—and his knees were wabbling more and more all the time; and I didn't know what the dickens we were going to do—and then Bess had an idea.
"Steady this," she said to Uncle Rob, and then she chased to the rear of the store and came back with a window-brush, that's on the end of a long pole so it will reach to the top of the windows. Uncle Rob saw the point, and as soon as she had taken her place at the ladder again, he took it and reached it up to Dad. Dad took hold of it and Uncle Rob held hard, and in a moment Dad was back down three steps, and sitting on the top one rubbing his arms and legs.
"Why didn't some of you do that a long time ago," he said.
I hadn't told Bess that I had given up my room, and she thought that the paper was for the southwest room; and I didn't tell her until it was all papered and finished, and I had sand-papered the book-shelves and done them over to match things better; and the desk had been brought up and put in place,—and then I had her come over to see.
She was as good as Mother for she didn't palaver a bit, but just showed by her eyes and face how she felt about it. She had brought over the writing set and a pottery jug that she had made in school, and she said that she would have some daffodils in her window-box, to put in the jug when the day came,—and it was less than a week off.
And how that week did fly! The sixth came on Saturday, and though we saw preparations, the folks kept their promise about not talking to us about it. We didn't know what time she was to arrive, but Bess came over early, right after breakfast, with the daffodils, and we put them in the jug on the desk, and Bess smoothed out the embroidered cloth on the table, and looked into the dresser drawers to see if there were fresh papers, and we brought in two or three of my books that we thought she might like, and put them on the book-shelves,—and a couple of magazines on the table,—and we patted everything all into place, and then went down and put up the hammock on the veranda—it was time it was out, anyway.
We sat there and talked and watched the street and tried to be interested in what we were saying—until by and by Bess just had to go home, because her father was in town for a few days, and she wanted to be with him all she could. She told me to whistle when the girl had got there, though.
I thought I'd go back up to the room and see if everything was all right; and as I went through the dining-room way, the first thing I saw was the dinner-table set for four! My heart gave a jump. She was coming before dinner,—she would be here in less than an hour! I rushed back to the veranda; but Bess was out of sight, and so I went on up stairs and put the jug of flowers on the table, instead of on the desk; and then I remembered that Bess had put it on the desk, and so I put it back, and moved around the magazines some, and looked in the dresser glass to see if it was clear, and tied my necktie over again, because one end was skew-haw,—and then I went back to the veranda. Gee, but the time did go slow!
It was a warm day, and it seemed sort of good to be in the hammock again, and hearing the old hooks and staples creak the way they did last Summer. I was just remembering how they sounded the day I first heard that that other girl was coming,—and here I was sitting and waiting for her, and my collar was choking, and I was screwing my neck in it!—when suddenly I heard Bess come rushing through the hedge and across the lawn. As she came around the house and onto the walk, I saw that her arms were flying and her eyes shining just as they always do when something big is in the air, and she was catching her breath and chuckling away down inside, and calling,—"Chet, Chet!" in a funny little excited way, as if her voice wasn't working right,—and her mouth and eyes were all alive with smiles.
"O Chet, Chet, Chet!" she cried, rushing up the steps and flopping down into the hammock beside me and grabbing my arm.
"Well," I said, "it seems to please you some!"
"Oh, it does,—it does! What do you think—and everybody thought we knew,—and we never even guessed!"
"W-e-l-l,—go on," I said.
"Why, don't you see, Chet,—Father just told me,—he's going away on a long trip,—to Europe, and everywhere,—and he's going to be gone a year or two,—and we're going to break up housekeeping, and—"
"Nice news for me," I said.
"Oh, but wait, Chet! You don't understand. There wasn't any other place for me;—and, oh, Chet, can't you see?—can't you see?—your mother was my mother's very best friend;—and I'm that other girl!"
The End