“Of course, and not because he would punish me if I disobeyed him, either. They say”—Jack drew up quaintly—“that John worships me. As for me, I shouldn’t wish to offend him. We’re awfully chummy, my father and I, although he’s very tall and strong and I——” Gulping, he turned away. “See that wooden cradle in the corner? I’d never have it in my rooms except that John was rocked in it when he was a baby. Seems funny to think of John ever having been a baby, he’s so mannish now.”
The Colonial antique which had distracted the little fellow’s thoughts from himself, was the first of many interesting treasures he showed her. Mrs. Cabot had called the child’s quarters “rooms,” rather than “nursery,” and they were, indeed, furnished incongruously for his years. Except for a few mechanical toys, the suite might have been that of some sophisticated bachelor. The chamber that opened off the living room was filled with heirloom mahogany, the bed a fine example of pineapple four-poster upon which not only his father’s father, but also his great-grandfather had slept. Oil portraits of the paternal line hung the walls. Turkish rugs lay upon the polished floors. An old corner clock ticked away the time for this last of the Cabots as it had for seven generations of the name before him. He particularly liked the clock, Jack said, because it was calm-faced—not too sad, not too happy—just calm.
To a large bowl of gold-fish twinkling lazily in the sunlight, he invited her especial attention. They had been given him by Clarke Shayle, he explained, to demonstrate the first principles of swimming.
“Clarke’s going to make a swimmer of me,” he asserted, “after he gets me well. Oh, you needn’t look so sorry for me! I’ve got good arms, haven’t I? You watch the gold-fish. They haven’t any legs.”
“Promise”—Dolores swallowed at the lump in her throat—“to give me one of your medals as a souvenir some day?”
From a downward glance at his poor body, he stared at her suspiciously. Evidently deciding that she was not making sport of him, he conceded: “Of course it may be a while yet. And we mayn’t be friends that long. That’s Clarke coming now for my treatment. I know his step.”
“Dr.” Shayle lacked the professional look. Although slightly above medium height, he was heavy as he well could be without loss of the athletic appearance for which Dolores had been prepared. He was young, clean-shaved, redheaded, freckled. Next after his appearance of strength, she noticed his cheerfulness. He had very clean teeth and an engaging smile. Early in their interview, he laughed in a joyous, lingering way, with a glance that coaxed her to share his amusement. She noticed also in these first moments a yellowish fleck in the brown iris of his right eye. It served to give him an oddly intent expression.
At once after Jack’s staid ceremony of introduction, he declared excitedly that he would not be “mauled” to-day—that he could not be forced into a treatment.
“Who wants to force you?” asked Shayle. “Do you think I enjoy wearing myself all out? A hike will be better for you, anyhow, at the present moment. Here, let me wind up that dog!”
His suggestion developed into a lesson in the slithering walk which evidently was the afflicted lad’s chief hope of getting along through life. The toy, over whose possession Jack had bitten the French maid’s wrist, was a mechanical dog whose four legs worked, when set going, with something the movement which the osteopath was cultivating in his patient. The dog set the pace across the room; the boy did his best to follow.