Yet for Ida it was not the same; she had something quite different from a boy’s troubles to fight, wholly feminine and mysterious.
A bright idea came—he would ask Bess Carter about it; she was sure to set “something doing” for Ida; and if she did the other girls would promptly fall in line.
But how could he accomplish it? To speak to a girl, even bluff, common-sense Bess, had come to be a pain during the past year. He could not understand it; hated himself for it, and spent long silent hours when he should have slept, composing brilliant dialogues between himself and some girl, only to slink by the first time he met her. Even a word from lonely Ida, whom accident had thrown in his way, set him in a panic.
How long he lay living over his vivid school life, building youth’s air castles, he did not know. He thought he had not slept, yet started suddenly at the sound of soft footsteps at the other end of the hall, and quickly rose and looked out of his door.
Mrs. Schmitz with a lighted taper was standing at the head of the stairs, listening. Her hair hung in a long braid, and the straight lines of her heavy kimono disguised her large figure and gave her a weird stateliness that made Sydney think of some serpent-bound goddess from old mythology.
He slid into his slippers, pulled around him the spread from the bed, caught up the poker from under the stove, and hurried to her.
“What is it,” he whispered, “a burglar?”
“Nothing, I guess. What you up for? I catch him mine self.”
Both listened intently. The stillness lasted so long that Sydney thought her mistaken, when a sliding sound came from below.