"Two hours! and me lying on the downy while they're worryin'. Me—uh!—I ain't worth it."
The sister opened the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Turnpike, with anxious faces and eyes somewhat dimmed, were soon bending over their boy, kissing him, and whispering words of love and praise and sympathy. After their farewells, William turned to the sister with shining eyes. "Nobody ever had a Ma and Pa like mine," he said, "and my hands are sore, but I'm tired—tired—" he closed his eyes—"and I'm a mutt. Lucien's got it on me all over when it comes to a show down." And William slept.
There followed a strange experience for the two boys. Reporters interviewed them, and the interviews mostly read as though the boys were past masters in the use of correct English. One enterprising reporter wrote up William's story just as the lad gave it. The majority of readers appreciated that interview because the lad's language appealed to them, but by the time the editor of the newspaper in which it appeared had read the third letter from "pro bono publico," protesting against the putting of so much slang into the mouth of a mere child, he regretted that he had not made the reporter re-write it. Being human, he, of course, lectured the reporter with asperity, and the reporter, being a man of spirit, instead of taking the lecture to heart, resigned, entered the field of literature, and, in a comparatively short time, became a noted writer of short stories. He blessed William at the time and ever afterwards for opening his eyes to the possibilities of the boy in fiction—and fact.
Two days in the hospital was enough for William. He gave his ultimatum to Ma and Pa after the mayor had called upon Lucien and himself to express admiration "on behalf of the citizens of Toronto," and informed them that they were to be presented with gold watches "as a permanent token of appreciation of their bravery."
William insisted on going home that day. "Another day here," he said, "with bunches of people buttin' in and slobberin' over me, and I'm a dead one. Besides! it was all Lucien; I'm no bloomin' hero."
Lucien was sick of it too, but, because his injuries were the more serious, he had perforce to stay a little longer in the hospital.
The presentation of the watches was made in the mayor's office one week after the fire. It was a painful ceremony, so far as the boys were concerned, and they were immensely relieved when the last word had been said, and their admiring parents were allowed to proudly escort them to their respective homes.
CHAPTER XXI
It required the combined efforts of Whimple, Epstein, and Watson to persuade William to take a two weeks' holiday before returning to work. He didn't want to go to the country: knew he would die after two days there: was positive he was as strong and as able to work as he ever had been: and, in short, he wouldn't go. Watson wormed the truth out of him after an hour's private talk. "I'm just crazy about keeping up my lessons with Mister Epstein," said William, finally; "I feel that I can't afford to miss one; I wanter be something, Tommy, and I'm finding out every day how much of a dub I am."