Many were the stories and legends of which Old Top was the hero. In the “great fire” its boughs had proven a ladder of safety before modern “escapes” were known. Civil-War veterans told of hunted scouts hiding, all unknown to the Fathers, in its spreading branches; while the students’ larks and frolics to which it had lent indulgent ear were ancient history at many a grandfather’s fireside.
But, like all things earthly, the big tree was growing old; a barbed wire fencing surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively prohibited climbing the rotten and unsafe branches. Even cutting names was forbidden. Freddy had been the last allowed, as the “kid” of the house, to put his initials beneath his father’s. It had been quite an occasion, his eleventh birthday. There had been a party (Freddy always had ten dollars to give a party on his birthday); and then, surrounded by his guests, still gratefully appreciative of unlimited ice cream and strawberries, he had carefully cut “F. W. N. 19—” beneath the same signature of twenty years ago. It was then too twenty years ago. It was then too hilarious an occasion for sad reflection; but lying alone in the infirmary to-day, Freddy’s memories took doleful form as he recalled the “F. W. N.” above his own, and began to think of his father who had vanished so utterly from his young life.
He had only the vaguest recollection of a tall, handsome “daddy” who had tossed him up in his arms and frolicked and laughed with him in a very dim, early youth. He could recall more clearly the stern, silent man of later years, of whom the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. And he retained a vivid memory of one bewildering evening in the dusky parlor of Saint Andrew’s when a shaking, low voiced father had held him tight to his breast for one startling moment, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear, “Good-bye, my little son,—good-bye for ever!” It was very sad, as Freddy realized to-day (he had never considered the matter seriously before),—very sad to have a father bid you good-bye forever. And to have your mother dead, too,—such a lovely mother! Freddy had, in his small trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty as any of the angels on the chapel windows. And now he had “temperature,” and maybe he was going to die, too, like some of those very good little boys of whom Father Martin read aloud on Sundays.
Freddy’s spirits were sinking into a sunless gloom, when suddenly there came a whistle through the open window,—a whistle that made him start up breathless on his pillow. For only one boy in Saint Andrew’s could achieve that clear high note. It was Dan Dolan calling,—but how, where? Freddy’s window was four stories high, without porch or fire escape and that whistle was almost in his ear. He pursed up his trembling lips and whistled back.
“Hi!” came a cautious voice, and the leafy shadows of Old Top waved violently. “You’re there, are you? Brother Tim around?”
“No,” answered Freddy.
“Then I’ll swing in for a minute.” And, with another shake of Old Top, Dan bestrode the window ledge,—a most cheery-looking Dan, grinning broadly.
“How—how did you get up?” asked Freddy, thinking of the barbed wire defences below.
“Dead easy,” answered Dan. “Just swung across from the organ-loft windows. They wouldn’t let me come up and see you. Brother Bart, the old softy, said I’d excite you. What’s the matter, anyhow? Is it the tumble—or typhoid?”
“Neither,” said Fred. “I feel fine, but Brother Tim says I’ve got temperature.”