The Debtor. Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman
them all like a charge of shot. There was a pause of a second, then the laughter and mocking were recommencing. But Anderson took advantage of the lull.
“See here, boys,” he shouted, “there's been enough of this. What is it to you whether he had a dozen elephants and rode them all at once, and had a circus every day in the week with a dozen tame bears thrown in? Clear out and go home and get your dinners. Clear out! Vamoose! Scatter!” His tone was at once angry and appealing. It implied authority and comradeship.
Anderson had given great promise as a speaker during his college course. He was a man who, if he exerted himself, could gauge the temper of a mob. The men on the outskirts began moving away easily; the boys followed their example. The little barber took the boy familiarly by the arm.
“Now, you look at here,” said he. “Don't you hev them chaps a-pesterin' of you no more, an' ef they do, you jest streak right into my parlor an' I'll take care of ye. See?”
The boy twitched his arm away and eyed the barber witheringly. “I don't want anything to do with you nor your old barber-shop,” said he.
“You had better run along, John,” said Anderson to the barber, who was staring amazedly, although the complacent smirk upon his face was undiminished.
“I guess he's a child kinder given to speakin' at tandem,” he said, as he complied with Anderson's advice.
The boy turned at once to the man. “What business had that barber telling me to go into his old barber-shop?” demanded he. “I ain't afraid of all the boys in this one-horse town.”
“Of course not,” said Anderson.
“I did have an elephant when I lived in Hillfield, and I did ride him, and I did have circuses every Saturday,” said the boy, with challenge.
Anderson said nothing.
“At least—” said the child, in a modified tone. Anderson looked at him with an air of polite waiting. The boy's roses bloomed again. “At least—” he faltered, “at least—” A maid rang a dinner-bell frantically in the doorway of the house near which they were standing. Anderson glanced at her, then back at the boy. “At least—” said the boy, with a blurt of confidence which yielded nothing, but implied the recognition of a friend and understander in the man—“at—least I used to make believe I had an elephant when I lived in Hillfield.”
“Yes?” said Anderson. He made a movement to go, and the boy still kept at his side.
“And—” he added, but still with no tone of apology or confession, “I might have had an elephant.”
“Yes,” said Anderson, “you might have.”
“And they did not know but what I might,” said the boy, angrily.
Anderson nodded judicially. “That's so, I suppose; only elephants are not very common as setter dogs for a boy to have around these parts.”
“It was a setter dog,” said the boy, with a burst of innocence and admiration. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I guessed.”
“You must be real smart,” said the boy. “My father said he thought you were, and somehow had got stranded in a grocery store. Did you?”
“Yes, I did,” replied Anderson.
Anderson was now walking quite briskly towards home and dinner, and the boy was trotting by his side, with seemingly no thought of parting. They proceeded in silence for a few steps; then the boy spoke again.
“I began with the setter dog,” said he. “His name was Archie, and he used to jump over the roof of a part of our house as high as”—he looked about and pointed conclusively at the ell of a house across the street—“as high as that,” he said, with one small pink finger indicating unwaveringly.
“That must have been quite a jump,” remarked Anderson, and his voice betrayed nothing.
“That setter was an awful jumper,” said the little boy. “He died last winter. My sisters cried, but I didn't.” His voice trembled a little.
“He must have been a fine dog,” said Anderson.
“Yes, sir, he could jump. I think that piece of our house he used to jump over was higher than that,” said the boy, reflectively, with the loving tone of a panegyrist who would heap more and more honors and flowers upon a dear departed.
“A big jump,” said Anderson.
“Yes, sir, he was an awful jumper. Those boys they said I lied. First they said he couldn't do it, then they said I didn't have any dog, and then I—”
“And then you said you had the elephant?”
“Yes, sir. Say, you ain't going to tell 'em what I've told you?”
“You better believe I'm not. But I tell you one thing—next time, if you'll take my advice, you had better stick to the setter dog and let elephants alone.”
“Maybe it would be better,” said the boy. Then he added, with a curious sort of naïve slyness, “But I haven't said I didn't have any elephant.”
“That's so,” said Anderson.
Suddenly, as the two walked along, the man felt a hard, hot little hand slide into his. “I guess you must be an awful smart man,” said the boy.
“What is your name?” said Anderson, in lieu of a disclaimer, which somehow he felt would seem to savor of mock modesty in the face of this youthful enthusiasm.
“Why, don't you know?” asked the boy, in some wonder. “I thought everybody knew who we were. I am Captain Carroll's son. My name is Eddy Carroll.”
“I knew you were Captain Carroll's son, but I did not know your first name.”
“I knew you,” said the boy. “I saw you out in the field catching butterflies.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, I was fishing. I was under those willows by the brook. I kept pretty still, and you didn't see me. Have to lay low while you're fishing, you know.”
“Of course,” said Anderson.
“I didn't catch anything. I don't believe fish are very thick in the brooks around here. I used to catch great big fellers when I lived in Hillfield. One day—”
“When do you have your dinner at home?” broke in Anderson.
“'Most any time. Say, Mr. Anderson, what are you going to have for dinner?”
Anderson happened to know quite well what he was going to have for dinner, because he had himself ordered it on the way to the store that morning. He answered at once:
“Roast lamb and green pease and new potatoes,” said he.
“Oh!” said the boy, with unmistakable emphasis.
“And I am quite sure there is going to be a cherry-dumpling for dessert,” said Anderson, reflectively.
“I like all those things,” stated the boy, with emphasis that was pathetic.
The man stopped and looked down at the boy. “Now, see here, my friend,” said he. “Honest, now, no dodging. Never mind if you do like things. Honest—you can't cheat me, you know—”
The boy looked back at him with eyes of profound simplicity and faith. “I know it,” he replied.
“Well, then, now you tell me, honest, if you do stay and have dinner with me won't your folks, your mother and your sisters, worry?”
The boy's face, which had been rather anxious, cleared at once. “Oh no, sir!” he replied. “Amy never worries, and Ina and Charlotte won't.”
“Who