Next year it would be Hec and Redtop, Bess, Sis Jones, and all the “gang”; and he would not be with them. This was the last day of school for him. But soon he forgot regret in the midst of good-byes, bustle, and joyous confusion, that presently subsided and left the gray building silent and ghostly for the long summer vacation.
Saturday was a busy day, spent at home in preparation for work, in “squaring up” troop duties, a bit of shopping, and other matters that had been put off till the end of school. He was to sleep at home, but would leave early for his work and return late. There would be little time for other matters.
For weeks, beneath the push of increasing duties, he vainly had tried to down the ache that came with thought of Erminie. She had not written. He missed her, and was hurt, sore because she had gone without a word to him, and had not let him know her hiding-place. He tried to excuse her. He invented a dozen ways in which a note she might have left for him could have gone astray. But the ache still lingered.
The Sunday before he left home was the hardest day of all. He was tired. His bridges were burned behind him, and his march ahead, not begun, was portentous with unknown trials. He worried himself with visions of Erminie ill, in trouble, alone, or perhaps worse, with people who mistreated her. Might the struggle be too much for her? Might she end it?
But he did not dwell long on that thought. Erminie was too cheerful, stout of heart, too bright and winning, and life meant too much to her; she would not fail. One thing, however, haunted him persistently: she would need money, and he could not send it to her.
The day wore on. In the evening they gathered around the piano and sang the songs they loved, Billy’s smooth, rich bass making the family quartette complete. It was nine o’clock, and Billy was saying good-night because he must be up and off by six in the morning, when a messenger came with an “immediate delivery” letter for Billy.
At last! He felt sure that it was from Erminie and his heart jumped, though he held his face calm. He was glad the address was typewritten,—they would think it was from the troop, or from some of the boys on important business. With a hasty excuse he took it to his room to read. There he tore it open, surprised that his hand was trembling, his breath coming in gusts.
“Dearest Billy:
“You must have worried about me something awful. I did not write before because you told me not to. At first I didn’t know what to do, but now I’m going to stay right here. They want me to. It was perfectly darling of you to let me have that money, so much too. And I know you’ll need it. But what a funny way to send it! I’m sending two dollars. I can’t spare more yet.
“I had an awful chin with the Kid the night before I went away, the night you were on the scout. As soon as I saw that dodger I called him up over the phone and told him to come over; and he did, and we walked and talked and talked. He wanted to go and sit in the park, but I wouldn’t. I told him he’d have to take back all he said, but he was nasty. He said he had both of us right where he wanted us; that I had lied to him, and a few more like that; and he wasn’t even yet,—he’d only begun. There was more coming.