during the next week or ten days tom worried over tad whitelaw. he wondered whether or not he ought to go to see the boy. if he didn't, tad's harvard career might end suddenly. if he did, he would probably have humiliation for his pains. he wouldn't mind the humiliation if he could do any good; but would he?
one thing that he could do was to take himself to task for thinking about the fellow in one way or the other. it was the fight he put up from day to day. what was tad whitelaw to him? nothing! and yet he was much. it was beyond reasoning about.
he was a responsibility, a care. tom couldn't help caring; he couldn't help feeling responsible. if tad went to the bad something in himself would have gone to the bad. he might argue against this instinct every minute of the day, yet he couldn't argue it down.
he remembered that tad went often to see hildred. he had been on his way to see her that afternoon before christmas when they had met on the esplanade. she might be able to get at him more easily than anybody else. he rang her up.
her life as a débutante was so crowded that she found it hard to give him a half hour. "i'm dead beat," she confessed on the wire. "if it weren't for
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mother i'd call it all off." she made him a suggestion. she was driving that morning to lunch with a girl who lived in one of the big places beyond jamaica pond. if he could be at a certain corner she could pick him up. he could drive out with her, and come back by the trolley car. then they could talk. that this proposal didn't meet the wishes of some one near the telephone he could judge by the aside which also passed over the wire. "he wants to see me about tad, mother. i can't possibly refuse."
getting into the car beside her, he had another of those impressions, now beginning to be rare, of the difference between her way of living and all that he was used to. much as he knew about cars, it was the first time he had actually driven in a rich woman's limousine. the ease of motion, the cushioned softness, the beaver rug, the blue-book, the little feminine appointments, the sprig of artificial flowers, subdued him so that he once more found it hard to believe that she took him on a footing of equality.
but she did. her indifference to the details which overpowered him was part of the wonder of the privilege. having everything to bestow, she seemed unaware of bestowing anything. she took for granted their community of life. she did it simply and without self-consciousness. had they been brother and sister she could not have been easier or more matter-of-course in all that she assumed.
except for the coming-out ball it was the first time, too, that he had seen her as what he called "dressed up." her costume now was a warm brown velvet of a shade which toned in with the gold-brown of her
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eyes and the nut-brown of her complexion. she wore long slender jade earrings, with a string of jade beads visible beneath her loosened furs. the furs themselves might have been sables, though he was too inexperienced to give them a name. except for the jade, she wore, as far as he could see, nothing else that was green but a twist of green velvet forming the edge of her brown velvet toque. her neat proud head lent itself to toques as being simple and distinguished.
he himself was self-conscious and shy. he could hardly remember for what purpose she had been willing to pick him up. a queen to her subjects is always a queen, a little overwhelming by her presence, no matter how human her personality. now that he was before her in his old harvard clothes, and the marks of the common world all over him, he could hardly believe, he could not believe, that she had uttered the words she had used on sunday night.
all the ease of manner was on her side. she went straight to the point, competent, businesslike.
"the thing, it seems to me, that will possibly save tad is that he's got to keep himself fit in case war breaks out."
that was her main suggestion. tad couldn't afford to throw himself away when his country might, within a few weeks, have urgent need of him. he couldn't, by over indulgence let himself run down physically, as he couldn't by neglecting his work put himself mentally at a disadvantage. he must be fit. she liked the word—fit for his business as a soldier.
"that's just what would appeal to him when
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nothing else might," tom commended. "i wish you'd take it up with him."
"i will; but you must too."
"if i get a chance; but i daresay i shan't get one."
she had a way of asking a leading question without emphasis. any emphasis it got it drew from the long oblique regard which gave her the air of a woman with more experience than was possible to her years.
"why do you care?"
he had to hedge. "oh, i don't know. he's just a fellow. i don't want to see him turn out a rotter."
"if he turned out a rotter would you care more than if it was anybody else?"
"m-m-m! perhaps so! i wouldn't swear to it."
"i would. i know you'd care more. and i know why."
he tried to turn this with a laugh. "you can't know more about me than i do myself."
"oh, can't i? if i didn't know more about you than you do yourself...."
he decided to come to close quarters. "you mean that you do think i'm the lost whitelaw baby?"
"i know you are."
"how do you know?"
"miss nash told me so, for one thing."
"and for another?"
"for another, i just know it."
"on what grounds?"
"on no grounds; on all grounds. i don't care anything about the grounds. a woman doesn't have to have grounds—when she knows."
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"well, what about my grounds when i know to the contrary?"
"but you don't. you only know your history back to a certain point."
"i've only told you my history back to a certain point. i know it farther back than that."
"how far back?"
"as far back as anyone can go, from his own knowledge."
"oh, from his own knowledge! but some of the most important things come before you can have any knowledge. you've got to take them on trust."
"well, i take them on trust."
"from whom?"
"from my mother."
she was surprised. "you remember your mother?"
"very clearly."
"i didn't know that. what do you remember about her?"
"i remember a good many things—how she looked—the way she talked—the things she did."
"what sort of things were they?"
"that's what i want to tell you about. it's what i think you ought to know."
she allowed her eyes to rest on his calmly. "if you think knowing would make any difference to me—"
"i think it might. it's what i want to find out."
"then i can tell you now that it wouldn't."
"oh, but you haven't heard."
"i don't want to hear, unless you'd rather—"
"that you did. that's just what i do. i don't think we can go any farther—i mean with our—"
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the word was difficult to find—"i mean with our—friendship—unless you do hear."
"oh, very well! i want you to do what's easiest for you, and if it does make a difference i'll tell you honestly."
"thank you." for a second, not more, he laid his hand on her muff, the nearest he had ever come to touching her. "we were talking about the things my mother did. well, they weren't good things. the only excuse for her was that she did them for me, because she was fond of me."
"and you were fond of her?"
"very; i'm fond of her still. it's one of the reasons—but i must tell you the whole story."
he told as much of the story as he thought she needed to know. beginning with the stealing of the book from which he had learned to read, he touched only the points essential to bringing him to the christmas eve which saw the end; but he touched on enough.
"oh, you poor darling little boy! my heart aches for you—all the way back from now."
"so you see why i became a state ward. there was nothing else to do with me. i hadn't anybody."
"of course you hadn't anybody if...."
"if my mother stole me. but you see she didn't. i was her son. i don't want to be anybody else's."
"only—" she smiled faintly—"you can't always choose whose son you want to be."
"i can choose whose son i don't want to be. that's as far as i go."
"oh, but still—" she dismissed what she was
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going to say so as not to drive him to decisions. "at any rate we know what to do about tad, don't we? and you must work as well as i."
"i will if he gives me a look-in, but very likely he won't."
and yet he got his look-in, or began to get it, no later than that very afternoon.
he had gone to westmorley court to give guy a hand with some work he was doing for his mid-years. on coming out again, a little scene before the main door induced him to hang back amid the shadows of the hall.
thorne carstairs was there with his machine, a touring car that had seen service. in spite of his residence in tuxedo park, and what guy had called his stacks of dough, he was a seedy, weedy youth, with the marks of the cheap sport. tad was there also, insisting on being taken somewhere in the car. spit castle being on the spot as a witness to a refusal accompanied by epithets of primitive significance, tad waxed into a rage. even to tom, who knew nothing of the cause of the breach, it was clear that a breach there was. tad sprang to the step of the car. thorne carstairs pushed him off, and made spurts at driving away. before he could swing the wheel, tad was on him like a cat. curses and maulings were exchanged without actual blows, when a shove from carstairs sent tad sprawling backward. before he could recover himself to rush the car again its owner had got off.
there was a roar of laughter from spit, as well as some hoots from spectators who had viewed the
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scuffle from their windows. tad's self-esteem was hurt. not only had his intimate friend refused to do what he wanted, but he was being laughed at by a good part of westmorley court.
he turned to spit, his face purple. "by god, i'll make that piker pay for this before the afternoon's out."
hatless as he was, without waiting for comment, he started off on the run. where he was running nobody knew, and tom least of all. by the time he had reached the street tad was nowhere to be seen.
for the rest of the day the incident had no sequel. tom had almost dismissed it from his mind, when on the next day, while crossing the yard, he ran into guy ansley.
guy was brimming over. "heard the row, haven't you?"
tom admitted that he had not. guy gave him the version he had heard, which proved to be the correct one. he gave it between fits of laughter and that kind of sympathetic clapping on the back which can never be withheld from the harum-scarum dare-devil playing his maddest prank.
when tad had run from the door of westmorley court he had run to the police station. there he had laid a charge against an unknown car-thief of running off with his machine. he could be caught by telephoning the traffic cops on the long street leading from cambridge to boston. he gave the number of the car which was registered in the state of new york. his own name, he said, was thorne carstairs; his residence, tuxedo park; his address
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in boston, the hotel shawmut, where he was known and could be found. having lodged this complaint, and put all the forces of the law into operation, he had dodged back to westmorley court, had his dinner sent in from a restaurant, locked his door against all comers, and turned into bed.
in the morning, according to guy, there had been the devil to pay. as far as tad was concerned, the statement was literally true. thorne carstairs had been locked in the station all night. not only had he been caught red-handed with a stolen car, but his lack of the license he had neglected to carry on his person, as well as of registration papers of any kind, confirmed the belief in the theft. his look of a cheap sport, together with his tendency to use elementary epithets, had also told against him. where another young fellow in his plight might have won some sympathy he roused resentment by his howlings and his oaths.
"we know you," he was assured. "been on the look-out for you this spell back. you're the guy what pinched dr. pritchard's car last week, and him with a dyin' woman. just fit the description—slab-sided, cock-eyed, twisted-nosed fella we was told to look for, and now we've got our claw on you. sure your father's a gintleman! sure you live at the hotel shawmut! but a few months in a hotel of another sort'll give you a pleasant change."
in the morning thorne had been brought before the magistrate, where two officials of the shawmut had identified him as their guest. piece by piece, to everyone's dismay, the fact leaked out that the law
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of the land, the zeal of the police, and the dignity of the court had been hoaxed. thorne himself gave the clue to the culprit who had so outraged authority, and tad was paying the devil. guy didn't know what precisely had happened, or if anything definite had happened as yet at all; he was only sure that poor tad was getting it where the chicken got the ax. he deserved it, true; and yet, hang it all! only a genuine sport could have pulled off anything so audacious.
with this tom agreed. there were spots in guy's narrative over which he laughed heartily. he condemned tad chiefly for going too far. it was his weakness that he didn't know when he had had enough of a good thing. anyone in his senses might know that to hoax a policeman was a crime. a policeman's great asset was the respect inspired by his uniform. under his uniform he was a man like any other, with the same frailties, the same sneaking sympathy with sinners; but dress him up in a blue suit with brass buttons on his breast, and you had a figure to awe you. if you weren't awed the fault was yours. yours, too, must be the penalty. the saving element was that beneath the brass buttons the heart was kindly, as a rule, and humorous, patient, generous. tom had never got over the belief, which dated from the night when his mother was arrested, of the goodness of policemen. he trusted to it now.
he was not long in making up his mind. leaving guy, he cut a lecture to go to see the dean. he went to the dean's own house, finding him at home. the dean remembered him as one of two or three young
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fellows who in the previous year had adjusted a bit of friction between the freshmen and the faculty without calling on the higher authorities to impose their will. he was cordial, therefore, in his welcome.
he was a big, broad-shouldered dean, human and comprehending, with a twinkle of humor behind his round glasses. there was no severity in the tone in which he discussed tad's escapade; there was only reason and justice. tad had given him a great deal of trouble in the eighteen months in which he had been at harvard. he had written to his father more than once about the boy, had advised his being given less money to spend, and a stricter calling to account at home. the father was distressed, had done what he could, but the mischief had gone too far. tad was the typical rich man's son, spoiled by too easy a time. he had been so much considered that he never considered anybody else. he was swaggering and conscienceless. the dean was of the opinion now that nothing but harsh treatment would do him any good.
tom put in his plea. the matter, as he saw it, was bigger than one fellow's destiny; it involved bigger issues. it was his belief that the country would soon be at war. if the country was at war, tad whitelaw's father would be one of the first of the bankers the president would consult. the dean knew, of course, that the bankers would have to swing as much of the war as the army and navy. henry t. whitelaw was a man, as everyone knew, already terribly tried by domestic tragedy. you wouldn't want to add to that now, just at the time when he needed to have
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a mind as free as possible. this boy was the apple of his eye; and if disgrace overtook him....
but that was only one thing. should the country go to war, it would call for just such young fellows as tad whitelaw; fellows of spirit, of daring, of physical health and strength. didn't the dean think that it might be well to nurse him along for a few weeks—it wasn't likely to be many—so that he could answer to the country's call with at least a nominal honorable record, instead of being under a cloud? if the dean did think so, he, tom, would undertake to keep the fellow straight till he was wanted. he wasn't vicious; he was only foolish and headstrong. though he didn't make a good student, he had in him the very stuff to make a soldier. tom would answer for him. he would be his surety.
in the long run the dean allowed himself to be won by tom's own earnestness. he would do what he could. at the same time tom must remember that if the college authorities stayed their hand the civil authorities might not. the indignation at police headquarters was unusually bitter. unless this righteous wrath were pacified....
having thanked the dean, tom ran straight to the police station. the chief of police received him, though not with the dean's cordiality. he too was a big, broad-shouldered man, but frigid and stern through long administration of law, discipline, and order. he impressed tom as a mechanical contrivance which operates as it is built to operate, and with no power of showing mercy or making exceptions to a rule. outwardly at least he was grave and obdurate.
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the victory lay once more with tom's earnestness. the chief of police made no secret of the fact that they were already considering the grounds on which "the crazy fool" could most effectively be prosecuted. the law was not, however, wholly without a heart, and if in the present instance the country could be served, even in the smallest detail, by giving the blamed idiot the benefit of clemency it could be done. tom must understand that the nonsense had not been overlooked; it was only left in abeyance. if his protégé got into trouble again he would be the more severely dealt with because of the present lenity.
tom ran now to westmorley court, where he knocked at tad's door. to a growling invitation he went in. the room was a cloud of tobacco smoke, through which the shapes of half a dozen fellows loomed dimly in the deepening winter twilight. tad tilted back in the revolving chair before the belittered desk which held the center of the room. his coat was off, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his feet on the edge of the desk. a cigar traveled back and forth from corner to corner of the handsome, disdainful mouth.
tom marched straight to the desk, speaking hurriedly. "can i have a word with you in private?"
the owner of the room neither moved nor took the cigar from his lips. "no, you can't." he nodded toward the door. "you can sprint it out again."
"i shall sprint it out when i'm ready. if i can't speak in private i shall speak in public. you've got to hear."
the insolent immobility was maintained. "didn't
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i tell you the last time i saw you that if you ever interfered with me again—?"
"that you'd shoot me, yes. well, get up and shoot. if you can't, or if you don't mean to, why make the threat? but i've come to talk reason. you've got to listen to reason. if you don't i'll appeal to these chaps to make you. they don't want to see you a comic valentine any more than i do. now climb down from your high horse and let's get to business."
it was guy ansley who cleared the room. "say, fellows—" with a stealthy movement, which their host was too preoccupied to observe, they slipped out. he knew, however, when he and his enemy were alone, and still without lifting his feet from the desk or taking the cigar from his mouth, made the concession of speaking.
"well, if business has brought you here, cough it up."
"i will. i come first from the dean, and then from the chief of police."
"oh, you do, do you? so you're to be the hangman."
"no; there's not to be a hangman. they've given you a reprieve—because i've begged you off."
the feet came off the desk. the cigar was taken from the lips. tad leaned forward in his chair, tense and incredulous.
"you've done—what?"
tom maintained his sang-froid. "i've begged you off. i went and talked to them both. i said i'd answer for you, that you'd stop being a crazy loon, and try to be a man."
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incredulity passed into angry amazement. "and who in hell gave you authority to do that?"
"nobody. i did it on my own. when a fellow gets his life as a gift he takes it. he doesn't kick up a row as to who's given it. for the lord's sake, try to have a little sense."
"what's it to you whether i've got sense or not?"
"nothing."
"then why in thunder do you keep butting in—?"
"because i choose to. i'll give you no other answer than that, and no other explanation. what you've got to do is to knuckle under and show that you're worth your keep. you're not a born fool; you're only a made fool. you're good for something better than to be a laughing-stock as you are to everyone in college. buck up! be a fellow! after being a jackass for a year and a half, i should think you'd begin to see that there was nothing to it by this time."
never in his life had tad whitelaw been so hammered without gloves. it was why tom chose to hammer him. nothing but thrashing, verbal or otherwise, would startle him out of the conviction of his self-importance. already it was shaking the foundations of his arrogance. in his tone as he retorted there was more than a hint of feebleness.
"what i see and what i don't see is my own affair."
"oh, no, it isn't. it's a class affair. there's such a thing as esprit de corps. we can't afford to have rotters, now especially."
tad grew still feebler. "i'm not the only rotter in the bunch. why do you pick on me?"
[pg 390]
"i've told you already. because i choose to. you might as well give in to me first as last, because you'll not get rid of me any more than you will of your own conscience."
tad sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing, in a new outburst. "i'll be damned if i'll give in to you."
"and i'll be damned if you don't. if i can't bring you round by persuasion i'll do it as i did it once before. i'll wale the guts out of you. i'm not going to have you a disgrace."
"ah!" tad started back. "now i've got you. a disgrace! you talk as if you were a member of the family. that's what you're after. that's what you've been scheming for ever since—"
"look here," tom interrupted, forcefully. "let's understand each other about this business once and for all." looking from under his eyelids he measured tad up and down. "i wouldn't be a member of the family that has produced you for anything the world could give me."
tad bounded, changing his note foolishly. "oh, you wouldn't wouldn't you! how do you know that you won't damn well have to be?"
walking up to him, tom laid a hand on his shoulder, paternally. "don't let us talk rot. we both know the nickname the fellows have stuck on me in harvard. but what's that to us? you don't want me. i don't want you. at least i don't want you that way. i'll tell you straight. i've got a use for you. that's why i keep after you. but it's got nothing to do with your family affairs."
they confronted each other, tad gasping. "you've
[pg 391]
got a use for me? greatly obliged. but get this. i've no use for you. don't make any mistake—"
withdrawing his hand, tom gave him a little shove. "oh, choke it back. piffle won't get you anywhere. i'm going to make something of you of which your father and mother can be proud."
it was almost a scream of fury. "make something of me—?"
"yes, a soldier."
the word came like a douche of cold water on hysteria, calming the boy suddenly. he tapped his forehead. "say, are you balmy up here?"
"possibly; but whether i'm balmy or not, a soldier is what you'll have to be. don't you read the papers? don't you hear people talking? why, man alive, two or three months from now every fellow of your age and mine will be marching behind a drum."
the boy's haggard face went blank from the sheer shock of it. the idea was not brand new, but it was incredible. tad whitelaw was not one of those who took much interest in public affairs or kept pace with them.
"oh, rot!"
"it isn't rot. can't you see it for yourself? if this country pitches in—"
"oh, but it won't."
"ask anyone. ask your own father. that's my point. if we do pitch in your father will be one of the big men of the two continents. you're his only son. you'll have to play up to him."
tom watched the hardened, dissipated young face contract with a queer kind of gravity. the teeth
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gritted, the lips grew set. it gave him the chance to go on.
"there aren't a half dozen men in the country who'd be able to swing what your father'll be swinging. listen! i know something about banking. been studying it for years. when it comes to war the banker has to chalk-line every foot of the lot. they can't do anything without him. they can't have an army or a navy or any international teamwork. you'll see. the minute war is declared, before war is declared, the president'll be sending for your father to talk over ways and means. now then, are you to put a spoke in the country's wheel? you can. you're doing it. the more you worry him the less good he'll be. get chucked out of college, as you would have been in a day or two, if i hadn't stepped in, and begged to have you put in my charge—"
once more tad revolted. "put in your charge! the devil i'll be put in your charge!"
"all right! it's the one condition on which you stay at harvard. jump your bail, and you'll see your father pay for it. he'll have his big international job, and he won't be able to swing it because he'll be thinking of you. you'll see the whole country pay for it. i daresay we shan't know where we pay and how we pay; but we'll be paying. say, is it worth your while? what do you gain by being the rotten spot in the beam that may bring the whole shack about our ears? everybody knows that your father has lost one son. can't you try to give him another of whom he won't have to be ashamed?"
tad stood sulkily, his hands in his trousers' pockets,
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as he tipped on his toes and reflected. since he made no answer, tom went on with his appeal.
"and that's not the only thing. there's yourself. you're not a bad sort. you've got the makings of a decent chap, even if you aren't one. you could be one easily enough. all you've got to do is to drop some of your fool acquaintances, cut out drinking, cut out women, and make a show of doing what you've been sent to harvard to do, even if it's only a show. you won't have to keep it up for more than a few weeks."
the furrow in the forehead when the eyebrows were lifted was also a mark of dissipation. "more than a few weeks? why not?"
tom pounded with emphasis. "because, i tell you, we'll be in the war. you'll be in the war. we fellows of the class of 1919 are not going to walk up on commencement day and take our degrees. we'll get them before that. we'll get them in batteries and trenches and graves. i heard a girl say, in speaking of you a day or two ago, that she hoped, when the time came for that, you'd be fit. she said she liked the word—fit for the job that'd be given you. you couldn't be fit if you went on—"
his curiosity was touched. "who was that?"
"i'm not going to tell you. i'll only say that she likes you, and that—"
"was it hildred ansley?"
"well, if you're bound to know, it was. if you want to talk to someone who wishes you well, go and—"
"did she put you up to this?"
[pg 394]
"no, she didn't. you put me up to it yourself. i tell you again, i'm going to see you go straight till i see you go straight into the army. you ought to go in with a commission. but if you're fired out of harvard they'll be shy of enlisting you as a private. if you won't play the game of your own accord, i'll make you."
with hands thrust into his trousers' pockets, tad began to pace the room, doing a kind of goose-step. his compressed lips made little grimaces like those of a man forcing himself to decisions hard to swallow. for a good four or five minutes tom watched the struggle between his top-loftiness and his common-sense. while common-sense insisted on his climbing down, top-loftiness told him that he must save his face. when he spoke at last his voice was hoarse, his throat constricted.
"if it's going to be war i'll be in it with both feet. but i'll do it on my own. see? you mind your business, and i'll mind mine."
tom was reasonable. "that'll be all right—if you mind it."
"and if you think i'm giving in to you—"
"i don't care a hang whether you're giving in to me or not so long as you—keep fit."
"i'll be the judge of that."
"and i'll help you."
"you can go to hell."
tad used these words because he had no others. they were fine free manly words which begged all the questions and helped him to a little dignity. if he was surrendering he would do it, in his own phrase,
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with bells on. the mucker shouldn't have the satisfaction of thinking he had done anything. it saved the whole situation to tell him in this offhand way the place that he could go to.
but a little thing betrayed him, possibly before he saw its significance. his points being won for the minute, tom had reached the door. beside the door stood a low bookcase, on which was open a package of cigarettes. tad's goose-step brought him within reach of it. he picked it up and held it toward tom. he did it carelessly, ungraciously, unthinkingly, and yet with all sorts of buried implications in the little act.
"have one?"
tom was careful to preserve a casual, negligent air as he drew one out. tad struck a match.
as the one held the thing to his lips and the other put the flame to it, the hands of the brothers, for the first time except in a fight, touched lightly.
