“I guess the boy’s tellin’ the truth. This nigger—Ole Ambrose they call ’im—used to be stable man f’r the Coles. Say, there was a time when they had a pile o’ money, ’Lizabeth. They lived on Park Avenue an’—”
“Yes, the boy has told me all that,” she interrupted. “What about the father?”
“No good—absolutely no good, ’Lizabeth. Always chasin’ ’round with fast women and playin’ the ponies. He went through his wife’s fortune in a few years, and now they got only his salary. It’s a good one, I guess, f’r he’s still playin’ the races an’ goin’ th’ pace generally. And what the kid said about his father’s half-drownin’ ’im in the bathtub every time he does somethin’ a little funny, like every kid’s doin’ pretty near every day, is truth. Ole Ambrose says he’s seen ’im beat the kid half to death, and then duck ’im on top o’ that. Don’t look like a bad kid to me, either. Does he to you?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, he seems to me an exceptionally kind and thoughtful boy. But he’s queer, George—there’s no denying that. He has an old head on his shoulders. I asked him: ‘But you really were deliberately late for school, weren’t you?’ And he replied: ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘don’t you consider your school work more important than watching slugs let themselves down from chips, no matter how interesting that may be?’ And what do you think was his answer? He said: ‘No’m, I don’t. It’s my business in this world to find out about things like that. I study a lot, but not school books. I’m not lazy in my head, if they do think so.’ Imagine, George, a boy of fourteen talking like that—stating his ‘business in this world!’ I tell you he’s a remarkable child, with those grave, kind eyes of his that look you so directly in the face.”
“Yes’m,” agreed George, not deeply moved by his wife’s enthusiasm. “And say—I think th’ cops are lookin’ for ’im, ’Lizabeth. The fella at the skatin’ rink said two big huskies were nosin’ ’round this mornin’, and they looked to him like plainclothes men. He was wonderin’ what they was up to, an’ when I told him a little about this kid he said he’d bet they was huntin’ him. But I told ’im the kid was all right and for him to keep his face closed, and he said it wasn’t any business o’ his, and he would. But what in th’ devil—I mean, what’re we gonta do about it? We can’t afford to get mixed up in anythin’ like this, ’Lizabeth!”
His wife did not answer at once. She stood with her dark head slightly bowed, a forefinger to her lips.
“Sometimes,” she said presently, as her husband came from the stable tent after leading in the ponies, “I think it is best for a boy to get out and learn something of the world. I didn’t use to think so before I married you, but the camp life that I have led, here to-day, there to-morrow, and encountering all sorts of men both young and old, has changed me—made me more liberal. The educational system of the schools is mostly wrong, I am convinced. Also I believe that most parents are wrong in their attitude toward their children. They don’t understand them and don’t try to. They don’t realize their sensitiveness. They don’t make any attempt to find out the trend of their minds, and they force them to this and to that, and—”
“Yes’m—I guess that’s about right, ’Lizabeth. But it ain’t tellin’ you an’ me what we’re gonta do about this kid.”
“I know it isn’t,” she conceded. “And I must confess that I have nothing in mind right now. I hate to see him taken back to that brute of a father, and I hate to see him run away and become a tramp. Which is just what will happen if we set him adrift. Could we use him, George?”
“I reckon we could,” said Bloodmop. “Never saw a time yet about a camp that a fella couldn’t put a strong, husky boy like that to work. The cook needs a helper, and we can’t afford to hire him one. Camp cooks ’a’ got a way o’ quittin’ unexpected, you know, when they begin to think the work’s too heavy and it’s gettin’ to be a long time between drinks. Yes, we could keep the kid busy pretty near all day—but I couldn’t give ’im anythin’ but his found.”