________________________________________________
_ To the competent twenties, hundreds of miles
suggesting no impossibilities, such departures
may be rending, but not tragic. Implacable, the
difference to Seventeen! Miss Pratt was going
home, and Seventeen could not follow; it could
only mourn upon the lonely shore, tracing little
angelic footprints left in the sand.
To Seventeen such a departure is final; it is a
vanishing.
And now it seemed possible that William might
be deprived even of the last romantic consolations:
of the ``last waltz together,'' of the last,
last ``listening to music in the moonlight
together''; of all those sacred lasts of the ``last
evening together.''
He had pleaded strongly for a ``dress-suit'' as
a fitting recognition of his seventeenth birthday
anniversary, but he had been denied by his father
with a jocularity more crushing than rigor. Since
then--in particular since the arrival of Miss
Pratt--Mr. Baxter's temper had been growing
steadily more and more even. That is, as
affected by William's social activities, it was
uniformly bad. Nevertheless, after heavy
brooding, William decided to make one final appeal
before he resorted to measures which the
necessities of despair had caused him to contemplate.
He wished to give himself every chance for a
good effect; therefore, he did not act hastily,
but went over what he intended to say, rehearsing
it with a few appropriate gestures, and even
taking some pleasure in the pathetic dignity of
this performance, as revealed by occasional
glances at the mirror of his dressing-table. In
spite of these little alleviations, his trouble was
great and all too real, for, unhappily, the previous
rehearsal of an emotional scene does not prove
the emotion insincere.
Descending, he found his father and mother
still sitting upon the front porch. Then, standing
before them, solemn-eyed, he uttered a preluding
cough, and began:
``Father,'' he said in a loud voice, ``I have
come to--''
``Dear me!'' Mrs. Baxter exclaimed, not
perceiving that she was interrupting an intended
oration. ``Willie, you DO look pale! Sit down,
poor child; you oughtn't to walk so much in this
heat.''
``Father,'' William repeated. ``Fath--''
``I suppose you got her safely home from
church,'' Mr. Baxter said. ``She might have
been carried off by footpads if you three boys
hadn't been along to take care of her!''
But William persisted heroically. ``Father--''
he said. ``Father, I have come to--''
``What on earth's the matter with you?''
Mr. Baxter ceased to fan himself; Mrs. Baxter
stopped rocking, and both stared, for it had
dawned upon them that something unusual was
beginning to take place.
William backed to the start and tried it again.
``Father, I have come to--'' He paused and
gulped, evidently expecting to be interrupted,
but both of his parents remained silent, regarding
him with puzzled surprise. ``Father,'' he began
once more, ``I have come--I have come to--to
place before you something I think it's your duty
as my father to undertake, and I have thought
over this step before laying it before you.''
``My soul!'' said Mr. Baxter, under his breath.
``My soul!''
``At my age,'' William continued, swallowing,
and fixing his earnest eyes upon the roof of the
porch, to avoid the disconcerting stare of his
father--``at my age there's some things that ought
to be done and some things that ought not to be
done. If you asked me what I thought OUGHT to
be done, there is only one answer: When any-
body as old as I am has to go out among other
young men his own age that already got one, like
anyway half of them HAVE, who I go with, and
their fathers have already taken such a step,
because they felt it was the only right thing to do,
because at my age and the young men I go with's
age, it IS the only right thing to do, because that
is something nobody could deny, at my age--''
Here William drew a long breath, and, deciding
to abandon that sentence as irrevocably tangled,
began another: ``I have thought over this step,
because there comes a time to every young man
when they must lay a step before their father
before something happens that they would be
sorry for. I have thought this undertaking over,
and I am certain it would be your honest duty--''
``My soul!'' gasped Mr. Baxter. ``I thought I
knew you pretty well, but you talk like a stranger
to ME! What is all this? What you WANT?''
``A dress-suit!'' said William.
He had intended to say a great deal more
before coming to the point, but, although through
nervousness he had lost some threads of his
rehearsed plea, it seemed to him that he was
getting along well and putting his case with some
distinction and power. He was surprised and
hurt, therefore, to hear his father utter a wordless
shout in a tone of wondering derision.
`I have more to say--'' William began.
But Mr. Baxter cut him off. ``A dress-suit!''
he cried. ``Well, I'm glad you were talking about
SOMETHING, because I honestly thought it must be
too much sun!''
At this, the troubled William brought his eyes
down from the porch roof and forgot his rehearsal.
He lifted his hand appealingly. ``Father,''
he said, ``I GOT to have one!''
`` `Got to'!'' Mr. Baxter laughed a laugh that
chilled the supplicant through and through. ``At
your age I thought I was lucky if I had ANY suit
that was fit to be seen in. You're too young,
Willie. I don't want you to get your mind on
such stuff, and if I have my way, you won't have
a dress-suit for four years more, anyhow.''
``Father, I GOT to have one. I got to have one
right away!'' The urgency in William's voice
was almost tearful. ``I don't ask you to have it
made, or to go to expensive tailors, but there's
plenty of good ready-made ones that only cost
about forty dollars; they're advertised in the
paper. Father, wouldn't you spend just forty
dollars? I'll pay it back when I'm in business;
I'll work--''
Mr. Baxter waved all this aside. ``It's not the
money. It's the principle that I'm standing for,
and I don't intend--''
``Father, WON'T you do it?''
``No, I will not!''
William saw that sentence had been passed and
all appeals for a new trial denied. He choked,
and rushed into the house without more ado.
``Poor boy!'' his mother said.
``Poor boy nothing!'' fumed Mr. Baxter.
``He's about lost his mind over that Miss Pratt.
Think of his coming out here and starting a regular
debating society declamation before his
mother and father! Why, I never heard anything
like it in my life! I don't like to hurt his
feelings, and I'd give him anything I could
afford that would do him any good, but all he
wants it for now is to splurge around in at this
party before that little yellow-haired girl! I
guess he can wear the kind of clothes most of the
other boys wear--the kind _I_ wore at parties--
and never thought of wearing anything else.
What's the world getting to be like? Seventeen
years old and throws a fit because he can't have
a dress-suit!''
Mrs. Baxter looked thoughtful. ``But--but
suppose he felt he couldn't go to the dance unless
he wore one, poor boy--''
``All the better,'' said Mr. Baxter, firmly. ``Do
him good to keep away and get his mind on
something else.''
``Of course,'' she suggested, with some
timidity, ``forty dollars isn't a great deal of money,
and a ready-made suit, just to begin with--''
Naturally, Mr. Baxter perceived whither she
was drifting. ``Forty dollars isn't a thousand,''
he interrupted, ``but what you want to throw it
away for? One reason a boy of seventeen
oughtn't to have evening clothes is the way he
behaves with ANY clothes. Forty dollars! Why,
only this summer he sat down on Jane's open
paint-box, twice in one week!''
``Well--Miss Pratt IS going away, and the
dance will be her last night. I'm afraid it would
really hurt him to miss it. I remember once,
before we were engaged--that evening before papa
took me abroad, and you--''
``It's no use, mamma,'' he said. ``We were
both in the twenties--why, _I_ was six years older
than Willie, even then. There's no comparison
at all. I'll let him order a dress-suit on his
twenty-first birthday and not a minute before.
I don't believe in it, and I intend to see that he
gets all this stuff out of his system. He's got to
learn some hard sense!''
Mrs. Baxter shook her head doubtfully, but
she said no more. Perhaps she regretted a little
that she had caused Mr. Baxter's evening clothes
to be so expansively enlarged--for she looked
rather regretful. She also looked rather
incomprehensible, not to say cryptic, during the long
silence which followed, and Mr. Baxter resumed
his rocking, unaware of the fixity of gaze which
his wife maintained upon him--a thing the most
loyal will do sometimes.
The incomprehensible look disappeared before
long; but the regretful one was renewed in the
mother's eyes whenever she caught glimpses of
her son, that day, and at the table, where
William's manner was gentle--even toward his
heartless father.
Underneath that gentleness, the harried self of
William was no longer debating a desperate
resolve, but had fixed upon it, and on the following
afternoon Jane chanced to be a witness of some
resultant actions. She came to her mother with
an account of them.
``Mamma, what you s'pose Willie wants of
those two ole market-baskets that were down
cellar?''
``Why, Jane?''
``Well, he carried 'em in his room, an' then he
saw me lookin'; an' he said, `G'way from here!'
an' shut the door. He looks so funny! What's
he want of those ole baskets, mamma?''
``I don't know. Perhaps he doesn't even know,
himself, Jane.''
But William did know, definitely. He had set
the baskets upon chairs, and now, with pale
determination, he was proceeding to fill them. When
his task was completed the two baskets contained:
One ``heavy-weight winter suit of clothes.''
One ``light-weight summer suit of clothes.''
One cap.
One straw hat.
Two pairs of white flannel trousers.
Two Madras shirts.
Two flannel shirts.
Two silk shirts.
Seven soft collars.
Three silk neckties.
One crocheted tie.
Eight pairs of socks.
One pair of patent-leather shoes.
One pair of tennis-shoes.
One overcoat.
Some underwear.
One two-foot shelf of books, consisting of several
sterling works upon mathematics, in a damaged
condition; five of Shakespeare's plays,
expurgated for schools and colleges, and also
damaged; a work upon political economy, and
another upon the science of physics; Webster's
Collegiate Dictionary; How to Enter a Drawing-
Room and Five Hundred Other Hints; Witty Sayings
from Here and There; Lorna Doone; Quentin
Durward; The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a
very old copy of Moths, and a small Bible.
William spread handkerchiefs upon the two
over-bulging cargoes, that their nature might not
be disclosed to the curious, and, after listening a
moment at his door, took the baskets, one upon
each arm, then went quickly down the stairs and
out of the house, out of the yard, and into the
alley--by which route he had modestly chosen
to travel.
. . . After an absence of about two hours he
returned empty-handed and anxious. ``Mother,
I want to speak to you,'' he said, addressing Mrs
Baxter in a voice which clearly proved the strain
of these racking days. ``I want to speak to you
about something important.''
``Yes, Willie?''
``Please send Jane away. I can't talk about
important things with a child in the room.''
Jane naturally wished to stay, since he was
going to say something important. ``Mamma,
do I HAF to go?''
``Just a few minutes, dear.''
Jane walked submissively out of the door,
leaving it open behind her. Then, having gone about
six feet farther, she halted and, preserving a
breathless silence, consoled herself for her banishment
by listening to what was said, hearing it all
as satisfactorily as if she had remained in the
room. Quiet, thoughtful children, like Jane,
avail themselves of these little pleasures oftener
than is suspected.
``Mother,'' said William, with great intensity,
``I want to ask you please to lend me three dollars
and sixty cents.''
``What for, Willie?''
``Mother, I just ask you to lend me three
dollars and sixty cents.''
``But what FOR?''
``Mother, I don't feel I can discuss it any; I
simply ask you: Will you lend me three dollars
and sixty cents?''
Mrs. Baxter laughed gently. ``I don't think
I could, Willie, but certainly I should want to
know what for.''
``Mother, I am going on eighteen years of age,
and when I ask for a small sum of money like
three dollars and sixty cents I think I might be
trusted to know how to use it for my own good
without having to answer questions like a ch--''
``Why, Willie,'' she exclaimed, ``you ought to
have plenty of money of your own!''
``Of course I ought,'' he agreed, warmly. ``If
you'd ask father to give me a regular allow--''
``No, no; I mean you ought to have plenty
left out of that old junk and furniture I let you
sell last month. You had over nine dollars!'
``That was five weeks ago,'' William explained,
wearily.
``But you certainly must have some of it left.
Why, it was MORE than nine dollars, I believe!
I think it was nearer ten. Surely you haven't--''
``Ye gods!'' cried the goaded William. ``A
person going on eighteen years old ought to be
able to spend nine dollars in five weeks without
everybody's acting like it was a crime! Mother,
I ask you the simple question: Will you PLEASE
lend me three dollars and sixty cents?''
``I don't think I ought to, dear. I'm sure
your father wouldn't wish me to, unless you'll
tell me what you want it for. In fact, I won't
consider it at all unless you do tell me.''
``You won't do it?'' he quavered.
She shook her head gently. ``You see, dear,
I'm afraid the reason you don't tell me is because
you know that I wouldn't give it to you if I
knew what you wanted it for.''
This perfect diagnosis of the case so
disheartened him that after a few monosyllabic
efforts to continue the conversation with dignity
he gave it up, and left in such a preoccupation
with despondency that he passed the surprised
Jane in the hall without suspecting what she
had been doing.
That evening, after dinner, he addressed to his
father an impassioned appeal for three dollars
and sixty cents, laying such stress of pathos on
his principal argument that if he couldn't have
a dress-suit, at least he ought to be given three
dollars and sixty CENTS (the emphasis is William's)
that Mr. Baxter was moved in the direction
of consent--but not far enough. ``I'd like
to let you have it, Willie,'' he said, excusing
himself for refusal, ``but your mother felt SHE
oughtn't to do it unless you'd say what you
wanted it for, and I'm sure she wouldn't like me
to do it. I can't let you have it unless you get
her to say she wants me to.''
Thus advised, the unfortunate made another
appeal to his mother the next day, and, having
brought about no relaxation of the situation,
again petitioned his father, on the following
evening. So it went; the torn and driven William
turning from parent to parent; and surely, since
the world began, the special sum of three dollars
and sixty cents has never been so often mentioned
in any one house and in the same space of
time as it was in the house of the Baxters during
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday
of that oppressive week.
But on Friday William disappeared after
breakfast and did not return to lunch. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXIV. CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
Read previous: CHAPTER XXII. FORESHADOWINGS
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