As his first emotional encounter the subject was sufficiently3 in his mind next day to make him duller than usual at school. On his way home from school it so preoccupied4 his thought that he forgot to look for the fat boy. It was the fat boy who first saw him, hailing him as he approached. There was already between them that acceptance of each other which is the first stage of friendship.
"What's your name?"
"Tom Whitelaw. What's yours?"
"Guy Ansley. How old are you?"
"Sixteen. How old are you?"
"I'm sixteen, too. What's your father do?"
"I haven't got a father. I live with—" it was difficult to explain—"with a man who kind o' takes care of me."
"A guardian5?"
[Pg 199]
"Something like that. What does your father do?"
"He's a corporation lawyer. Makes big money, too." As Tom began to move along the fat boy went with him, keeping step. "What's your guardian do?"
"He does anything that'll give him a job. Mostly he's a stevedore6."
"What's a stevedore? Sounds as if it had something to do with bull-fighting."
"It's a longshoreman. He loads and unloads ships."
They stopped at the corner of Pinckney Street The puffy countenance7 fell. Tom could follow his companion's progression of bewilderments.
"Where do you live?"
"I live in Grove8 Street."
It was the minute of suspense9. All had been confessed. The countenance that had fallen went absolutely blank. To himself the tall, proud, sensitive lad was saying that his future life was staked on the response the fat boy chose to make. If he showed signs of wriggling10 out of an embarrassing situation he, Tom Whitelaw, would range himself forever with the enemies of the rich.
The fat boy spoke11 at last.
"So you're that kind of fellow."
"Yes, I'm that kind of fellow."
This was mere12 marking time. The decision was still to come. It came with an air on the fat boy's part of heroic resolution.
"Well, I don't care."
Tom breathed again, breathed with bravado13. "Neither do I."
[Pg 200]
In the stress of so much big-heartedness the girlish voice became a croak14. "I know guys who think that if another guy isn't rich they must treat him as so much dirt. I'm not that sort. I'm democratic. I wouldn't turn down a fellow just because he lived in Grove Street. If I liked him I'd stick to him. I'm not snobbish15. How do you know you couldn't give him a peg16 up, and he'd be grateful to you all his life?"
Thinking this over afterward17, Tom found it hard to disengage the bitter from the sweet; but he had not much chance to think it over. Any spare minute he found pre-empted by Maisie Danker, who seemed to camp in the dark hallway. If she was not there when he entered, she appeared before he could go upstairs. The ice having melted in the street, she had other needs of protection, an errand to do in the crowded region of Bowdoin Square, a shop to visit across the Common which was so wide and lonesome in winter twilights, a dance hall to locate in case they ever made up their minds to visit it. She was always timid, clinging, laughing, adorable. The embodiment of gayety, she made him gay, which was again a new sensation. Never before had he felt young as he felt young with her. The minutes they spent swamped in the throngs18 of the lighted streets, between five and seven on a winter's afternoon, were his first minutes of escape from a world of care. Care had been his companion since he could remember anything; and now his companion was this exquisite19 thing, all lightsomeness and joy.
[Pg 201]
He was later than usual in returning from school one afternoon, because a teacher had given him a commission to carry out which took some two hours of his time. As it had sent him toward the south end of the city, he had the Common to traverse on his way home. Snow had recently fallen; but through the main avenues under the trees the paths had been cleared. On the Frog Pond the drifts had been swept up, so that there could be a little skating. As Tom passed by he could hear the scraping and grinding of skates, and the hoarse20 shouts of hobbledehoys. At any other time he would have stopped, either to look on peacefully, or to take part in some bit of free-for-all, rough-and-tumble skylarking in the snow. But Maisie might be waiting. She might even have given up waiting, which would take all his pleasure from the afternoon.
To reach home more quickly he followed a short cut, scarcely shoveled21 out, on the slope of the Common below Beacon22 Hill. Here there were no foot passengers but himself. Neither, for some little distance, were there any trees. There was only the white shroud23 of the snow, freezing to a crust. A misty24 moon drifted through a tempest of scudding25 clouds, while wherever in the offing there was a group of elms the electric lights danced through their tossing branches as if they were wind-blown lanterns.
In spite of his hurry, the boy came to a standstill. It was a minute at which to fancy himself lost in Moosonee or Labrador. His voyageur guides had failed him; his dog team had run away; his pemmican—he supposed it would be pemmican—had given out. He
[Pg 202]
was homeless, starving, abandoned, alone but for the polar bears.
It was not a polar bear that he saw come floundering down the hillside, but it might have been a black one. It was certainly black; its nature was certainly animal. It rolled and tumbled and panted and grunted26, and now and then it moaned. For a few minutes it remained stationary27, with internal undulations; then it scrambled29 a few paces, as an elephant might scramble28 whose feet had been sawn off. A dying mammoth30 would also have emitted just these raucous31 groans32.
Suddenly it squealed33. The squeal34 was like that of a pig when the knife is thrust into its throat. It was girlish, piercing, and yet had a masculine shriek35 in it. Tom Whitelaw knew what was happening. It had happened to himself so often in the days when he was different from other boys that his fists seemed to clench36 and his feet to spring before his mind had given the command. In clearing the fifty odd yards of snow between him and the wallowing monster, he chose a form of words which young hooligans would understand as those of authority.
"What in hell are yez doin' to that kid? Are yez puttin' a knife in him? Leave him be, or I'll knock the brains out of every one of yez."
He was in among them, laying about him before they knew what had landed in their midst. They were not brutal37 youngsters; they were only jocose38 in the manner of their kind. Having spied the fat boy coming down to watch the skating, it was as natural for them to jump on him as it would be for a pack of
[Pg 203]
dogs who chanced to see a sloth39. With the courage of the mob, and also with its rapidity of thought-transfer, they had closed in silently and rushed him. He was on his back in a second. In a second they were clambering all over him. When he staggered to his feet they let him run, only to catch him and pull him down again. So staggering, so running, so coming down like a lump of jelly in the snow, he had reached the top of the hill, his tormentors hanging to him as if their teeth were in his flesh, at the minute when Tom first perceived the black mass.
The fat boy had not lacked courage. He had fought. That is, he had kicked and bitten and scratched, with the fury of vicious helplessness. He had not cried for mercy. He had not cried out at all. He had struggled for breath; he had nearly strangled; but his pantings and gruntings were only for breath just as were theirs. Strong in spite of his unwieldiness, he was not without the moral spunk40 which can perish at a pinch, but will not give in.
None of them had struck him. That would have been thought cowardly. They had only plastered him with snow, in his mouth, in his ears, in his eyes, and down below his collar. This he could have suffered, still without a plea, had not their play become fiercer. They began to tear open his clothing, to wrench41 it off the buttons. They stuffed snow inside his waistcoat, inside his shirt, inside his trousers. He was naked to the cold. And yet it was not the cold that drew from him that piglike squeal; it was the indignity42. He was Guy Ansley, a rich man's son, in his native sanctified
[Pg 204]
old Boston a young lordling; but these muckers had mauled the last rag of honor out of him.
They were good-natured little demons43, with no more notion of his tragedy than if he had been a snowman. As soon as the strapping44 young giant had leaped in among them, they ran off with screams of laughter. Most of them were tired of the fun in any case; a few lingered at a distance to "call names," but even they soon disappeared. Tom could only help the lumbering45 body to its feet.
Cleaning him of snow was more difficult, and since it was melting next his skin, it had to be done at once. The shirt and underclothing being wet, and a keen wind blowing, his teeth were soon chattering46. Even when buttoned tightly in his outer clothes he was dank and clammy within. It helped him a little that Tom should strip off his own overcoat and exchange with him; but nothing could really warm him till he got into his own bed.
They would have run all of the short distance to Louisburg Square only that young Ansley was not a runner at any time, and at this time was exhausted47. Tom could only drag him along as a dead weight. Except for the brief observations necessary to what they had to do, they hardly spoke a word. Speech was nearly impossible. The only aim of importance was covering the ground.
The old manservant who admitted them in Louisburg Square went dumb with dismay. Having brought his charge into the hall, Tom was obliged to take the lead.
[Pg 205]
"He's been tumbling in the snow. He's got wet. He may have caught a chill. Better call his mother."
The fat boy spoke. "Mother's in New York. So's father. Here, Pilcher, help me up to my room."
As the two went up the stairs, Tom was left standing48 in the hall. A voice at the head of the stairs arrested his attention because it was a girl's. Since knowing Maisie Danker, all girls' voices had begun to interest him. This voice was clear, silvery, peremptory49, a little sharp, like the note of a crystal bell. Pilcher explained something, whereupon the owner of the voice ran down. On the red carpet of the stairs, with red-damasked paper as a background, her white figure was spiritlike beneath a dim oriental hall light.
"I'm Hildred Ansley," she said, with a cool air of self-possession. "I see my brother's had an accident. Pilcher is putting him to bed. I'm sure we're very much obliged to you."
She was only a child, perhaps fourteen, but a competent child, who knew what to say. Not pretty, as Maisie was, she had presence and personality. In this she was helped by her height, since she was tall, and would be taller, and more by her intelligence. It was the first time he had ever had occasion to observe that some faces were intelligent, though it was not quite easy to say why. "Little Miss Ansley knows what's what," he commented silently, but aloud he said that if he were in her place he would send for a doctor. Though her brother had had no bones broken, he might easily have caught a bad cold.
"Thank you! I'll do it at once."
[Pg 206]
She made her way to a table, somewhat belittered with caps and gloves, behind the stairs, at the back of the hall. Taking up the receiver, she called a number, politely and yet with a ring of command. While she was speaking he noticed his surroundings.
If to him they seemed baronial it was because his experience had been cramped50. Louisburg Square is not baronial; it is only dignified51. For the early nineteenth century its houses were spacious52; for the early twentieth they are a little narrow, a little steep, a little lacking in imaginative outlet53. But to Tom Whitelaw, with memories that went back to the tenements54 of New York, to whom the homes of the Tollivants and the Quidmores had meant reasonable comfort, who found the sharing of one room with George Honeybun endurable, these walls with their red paper, these stairs with their red carpet, this lofty gloom, this sense of wealth, were all that he dreamed of as palatial55.
When Miss Ansley returned from the telephone, he asked if he might have his overcoat. Her brother had worn it upstairs on going to his room. "That's his," he explained, pointing to the soggy Burberry he had thrown down on a carved settle.
"Oh, certainly! I'll run up and get it. I won't ask you to go upstairs to the drawing-room; but if you don't mind taking a seat in here...."
Throwing open the door of the dining room, which was on the ground floor, she switched on the light. Tom entered and stood still. So this was the sort of place in which rich people took their meals!
It was a glow of rich gleaming lights, lights from mahogany, lights from silver, lights from porcelain56.
[Pg 207]
In the center of the table lay a round piece of lace, on which stood a silver dish with nothing in it. He knew without being told, though he had never thought of it before, that it needed nothing in it. There were things so beautiful as to fulfil their purpose merely in being beautiful. From above a black-marble mantelpiece a man looked down at him with jovial57 eyes, a man in a high collar and huge black neckerchief, who might have been the grandfather or great-grandfather of Guy and Hildred Ansley. He had the fat good humor of the one and the bright intelligence of the other, the source in his genial58 self of types so widely different.
Young Miss Ansley tripped in with the coat across her arm. "I'm sure my father and mother will want to thank you when they come back. Guy's been very naughty. He's always forbidden to leave the Square when he goes out of doors. He wouldn't have done it if papa and mamma hadn't been away. I can't make him mind me. But you must come back when everybody's here, so that you can be thanked properly. I suppose you live somewhere near us?"
Tom found it easiest to answer indirectly59. "Your brother knows everything about me. I've seen him once or twice in the Square, and I've told him who I am."
"That'll be very nice."
She held out her hand, and he accepted his dismissal. But before having closed the door behind him, he turned round to her as she stood under the oriental lamp.
"I hope your brother will soon be all right again.
[Pg 208]
I think they ought to give him a hot drink. He's—he's got big stuff in him when you come to find it out. He'll make his way."
The transformation60 in her was electric. She ceased to be starched61 and competent, with a manner that put a thousand miles between him and her. The intelligence he had already noted62 in her face was aflame with a radiance beyond beauty.
"Oh, I'm so glad you can say that! No one outside the family has ever said it before. He's a lamb!—and hardly anybody knows it."
She held out her hand again. As he took it he saw that her eyes, which he thought must be dark, were shining with a mist of tears.
Going down the hill he repeated the two names: Maisie Danker! Hildred Ansley! They called up concepts so different that it was hard to think them of a common flesh. Though Maisie Danker was a woman and Hildred Ansley but a child, there were points at which you could compare them. In the comparison the advantages lay so richly with the girl in Louisburg Square that he fell back on the fact, stressing it with emphasis, that Maisie was the prettier. "After all," he reflected, with comfort in the judgment63, "that's all that matters—to a man."
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1
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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5
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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stevedore
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| n.码头工人；v.装载货物 | |
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7
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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8
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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9
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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10
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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14
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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15
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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16
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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24
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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25
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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26
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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36
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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42
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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44
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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45
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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46
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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47
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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50
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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51
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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53
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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56
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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57
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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60
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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61
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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63
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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