he never knew how and when the question as to his adoption had been raised, or whether the husband or the wife had raised it first. here, too, the steps were taken with that kind of mystification which shrouded so much of his destiny. he himself was not consulted till, apparently, all the principal parties but himself had decided on the matter. one of the guardians, or a representative, asked him the formal question as to whether or not he should like it, and being answered with a yes, had gone away. the next thing he knew he had legally become the son of martin and anna quidmore, and was to be henceforth called by their name.

the outward changes were not many. he had won so much freedom in the house that when he became its son and heir there was, for the minute, little more to give him. his new mother grew more openly affectionate; his new father drove him round in the dilapidated car and showed him to the neighbors as his boy. as far as tom could judge, there was general approval. martin quidmore had taken a poor outcast lad and given him a home and a status in the world. all good people must rejoice in this sort of generosity. the new father rejoiced in it himself, smiling with a twisted smile that was like a leer, the only thing about him which the new son was afraid of.

[pg 88]

it was august now. the picking of the strawberries having long been over, the boy had been kept on for other jobs. he still worked at them. he dug potatoes; he picked peas and beans; he pulled carrots, parsnips, and beets; he culled cucumbers. the hired hands did the heaviest work, but he shared in it to the limit of his strength. sometimes he went off early in the morning on the great lorry, loaded with garden-truck, which his father drove to the big markets.

on these journeys the new father grew most confidential and lovable. his mellifluous voice, which was sad and at the same time not quite serious, was lovable in itself.

"god, how i'd like to give you a better home than you've got! but it's no use, not as long as she's there. she'll never be anything different. she'd not make things brighter or cleaner or jollier, not even if she was to try."

"well, she is trying," the boy declared, in her defense; but the only answer was a melancholy laugh.

and yet now that he had the duties, of a son, he set to work to improve the family relationships. he petted the mother, he cajoled the father. he found small ruses of affection in which, as it seemed to him, he gained both the one and the other, insensibly to either. his proof of this came one morning as once more they were driving to one of the big markets.

"say, boy, i'm beginning to be worried about her. i don't think she can be well. she's never been sick much; but gosh! now i'll be hanged if i don't think i'll go and see a doctor and ask him to give her some medicine."

[pg 89]

as this thoughtfulness, in spite of all indications to the contrary, implied a fundamental tenderness, the boy was glad of it. he was the more glad of it when, on a morning some days later, and in the same situation, the father drawled, in his casual way:

"say, i've seen that doctor, and he's given me something he wants her to take. thinks it will put her all right in no time."

"and did you give it to her?" he asked, eagerly.

the honeyed voice grew sweeter. "well, no; that's the trouble. you can't get her to take doctor's stuff, if she knows she's taking it. got to get her on the sly. once when she needed a tonic i used to watch round and put it in her tea. bucked her up fine."

"and is that what you're going to do now?"

"well, i would, only she'd be afraid of me. watches me like a cat, don't you see she does? what i was thinking of was this. you know she makes a cup of tea for herself every day in the middle of the afternoon while we're out at work. well, now, if you could make an excuse to slip into the kitchen, and put one of these powders in her teapot—" he tapped the packet in his waistcoat pocket—"she'd never suspect nothing. she'd take it—and be cured."

the boy was silent.

"you don't want to do it, hey?"

"oh, i don't say that. i was—i was—just wondering."

"wondering what?"

"whether it's fair play to anyone to give them medicine when they don't know they're taking it."

"but if it's to do them good?"

[pg 90]

"but ought we to do good to people against their wills?"

"why, sure! what you thinking of? still if you don't want to...."

the tone hurt him. "oh, but i will."

"say i will, father. why don't you call me that? don't i call you son?"

he braced himself to an effort. "all right, father; i will."

"good! then here's the powder." he drew one from the packet. "don't let none of it fall. you'll steal into the kitchen this afternoon—she generally lays down after she's washed the dinner things—and just empty the paper into the little brown teapot she always makes her tea in. then burn the paper in the stove—there's sure to be a fire on—so that she won't find nothing lying around to make her suspicious. you understand, don't you?"

he said he understood, though in his heart of hearts he wished that he hadn't been charged with the duty.