THE DULL LITTLE MAN.

Press, Volume LXV, Issue 13468, 7 July 1909, Page 3

THE DULL LITTLE MAN.

—* Wl—(. LxviSGTOH COMTOET. Maxine had a doll which was all her own, «and then there was Mr Kempis. Tho doll was patch-haired *and not strong on knee action; Mr Kempis was nearly eighty and blemished with richness and variety; but these two were Marine's property. The fact that no. ono else coveted did not detract. The rest of the people in the child's sphere —which was a large and successful boardinghouse—were nice enough, hut not to be handled. Now, Maxine's mother was not dead, but for some reason or other in the world's alfairs, the child had become a fixture in tho establishment of her aunt, Mrs Fealy. who was largo and clean and honest, a talented mistress of pantry, cookery, and scrubbery staffs, a right good woman and a busy one. She loved Maxine, kept her gladly ; but she was a mother of two who wero grown, a boy and a girl whom other cities had caught and held. Beside, she had a cumulative memory of Fealy. Not for an instant can any aspersions be tolerated against the landlady, with her heart interest in the mails and the cemetery, with her forty to feed, and her ten or twelve coloured folk to bludgeon or cherish through tho day's work. Only Maxino learned selfat seven," which is hurried. Mr Kempis smoked away the latest of his many Kentucky wint .s beforo tho grate fire in one of Mrs Fealy _ rooms. He smoked a tobacco which he explained had been better in the days of his youth, but was still so good as to be superior to any of the newer brands. Often he went forth for air in the forenoon, thumping his staff before him, and meditated a while with his knees close to the little red-hot stove in the livery stable opposite. Between fragments of horse talk., which is tho bono and hair of Kentucky conversation, Mr Kempis would remark that it was a mighty pretty day, aside from the wind or the rain or the disorder underfoot. Someone would respond presently, between an observation on so-and-so's filly or what's-her-name's splint, that Mr Kempis was quite right. The old man's- room at the boardinghouse was always open and always warm. Maxino played there. The patch-haired doll, called Putta for unknown reasons, was also a familiar in the place, liko the staff in the corner by the coal tongs. "This is my side of the room and that's yours," Maxine would explain. "Yes, ma'am," said Mr Kempis'regularly, nudging over a little farther toward the grate. "We both belong here, and we're both little children together—ain't it so, ma'am ?" His voice always rose until it broke toward the end of a sentence, when Mr Kempis .-would clear up tho fragments and finish. Maxine agreed, of courso, and on some occasions would go to the drawer for. a clean handkerchief, spying Mr Kempis's, which would have remained as faithful as the tobacco without semebody's help. Then she-would give him Putta to hold, and the old man would smoke tho room dim with pleasure. It was all very quaint, and the world had no pull unon them. In tho heart of winter, tho child, June, came. She was a sound, rosy, imperious being of four, who took to Maxino with a love sudden and entiro_ as if she had had her for a playmate in another life. June's mother approved distantly of Mr Kempis until one day she entered the smoke, and groped forth again into the hall dragging 'her own. It was impressed upon her then and there that Maxino would better play with June in her own suite—which prevailed. Mr Kempis finally begged for Putta to hold. His position was that his staff and ho had been pining alone for days, .the gusty weather and slinpery pave.ments preventing pilgrimage to the livery stable. A man and his pipe, Mr Kempis intimated, ore friends as close .as-Paul .-and Silas, but evemthey had to ipart occasionally on: separate appoiiit- . ments. "Juno.loves mc," Maxine . Teplied, with sorrow but with power. "Besides, you have mo at meals, and you can take Putta some—when June don't cry for her." ..-...' The little, girl had accepted Putta as a part of Maxine, and usually insisted*, upon the two calling together. So during the midwinter days Mr Kempis had to be content with Maxine at meals. The table at which they sat was at the far dark end of the big dining-room. Tho transients were mostly seated there, and the unmarried guests; mountaineers of colossal boots 'and hands; the bulk, in general, who were without inheritance or achievement. No one had his fixed chair at this long table, and the newest servant was assigned. Now June and her mother and father were given a small round table, secluded and attractive. Their only difficulty was that in crowded moments, a run-over was apt to bo seated by Mrs Fealy—with a whispered apology —in tho fourth chair. This was disliked very much by June's motheT, and the way out was suggested all unconsciously by the child, when during a certain .supper she demanded the company of Maxine. So it came about that Maxine "took her position at the fourth seat to prevent a scene and remained to keep out the uncertain stran_er. Kentucky called it mighty pretty and humane on the part of June's parents, but Mr Kempis was very, very disconsolate. The stock of handkerchiefs in his drawer needed no replenishing, and the winter wore' on until March, when the land began to take on the glory of its traditions. Maxine prospered physically, and learned table manners. She no longer lopped or nibbled or bolted; dnink mdk and forgot condiments; attended her teeth and shoulders and fingernails. Onco June's father, a dull little man, leaned forward over his napkin to explain that one's stomach is" not designed to be a receptacle for odds and onds like a work-basket, but that it is a clearing-house for certified food of the realm, and if nronerly treated will bring peace and plenty and credit to the land. The dull little man added that if Maxine would eat fewer pancakes and more soup, her hair would curl and her cheeks grow red like June's, and that the eyes wouldn't fall out of her doll. By the first of April Kentucky developed such a gorgeous climate that June's father and mother decided to go North. Indeed, the dull little man had been yearning for weeks to see his i chicken farm again and to find out what certain collie mothers had brought forth in tho winter wheloings. Letters from his properties could not satisfy. j It was all arranged, and they wero seated at dinner one day before Maxine entered. The man said: "Seems weird to go North and leave that child here." "What child?" June's mother asked, and there was hysteria in her tone. He spelled it: "M-a-x-i-n-e." "Jimmy, I tell you here and now, we are not going to take that child North with us!" June was munching a cracker, unaroused. Maxine joined them. "You know you are always right, my dear," the dull little man resumed amicably, "only we are so awfully stingy, and —ct —sho responds so to treatment.". Just then Mr Kempis faltered through tho door with his staff, piped his "howdies" to June and Maxine. and took an open place at the? tablo of the exceptions. The conversation went on clumsily evasive. No one roted at first that Maxine caught the trend and was battling with the knowledge that June —who loved her —was shortly to be taken away. The dazed, jerky fashion with which she finished her soup, however, attracted the attention of the dull little man and broke up his dream of tho long Michigan summer which would soon be lying upon his real possessions. , ,;._.., When the meal was hair finished, Maxine faltered that her aunt needed her. It was approaching June's nappy

time and she suffered the departure Her father -did not fail to note tho tight white look about the mouth of tho boarding-hotls© *hikl. Hi* tubconscious faculties began to" work, «yen an he explained to June's motW that tho Harrison Chief filly he had }«6t bought ought to bo a show maro wnoii sho put on another year. "Oh. you weary mc, Jimmy, vith your animals-—animals!"'

Maxino was used to tragedies. Sho could bear this one. of course, but sho wanted to bear it alone; wanted to begin it at once and get it into the past. That night the dull little man was passing through the hall and noticed that Mr Kempis's door was open. Maxino was there, playing with tho patchhaired doll on iier side of the room. Something impelled the man to enter and offer a cigar. The answering smile from Mr Kempis warmed him. "Maxine and mo is children together," the old man explained. "Isn't that good ?" snid the visitor, adding to tho ciso'.-© which already dulled tho light. "And say, Mr Kempis, they tell rac yon like animals—l mean, good animals I" '"Yes, fiir!'' "Why, say, I've got hundreds of hens that average three hundred eggs a year—up in Michigan!"' "An' I liko dawgs," observed Mr Kempis. "Dogs!"' exclaimed tho dull little man. "Why. I've got all the dogs ill the* world —up in Michigan—collies— Ellwyn, Wishaw. Southport, Balgreggio collies —kings of their class!" Mr Kcn:pi>> beamed. '"You sco,' ! explained o line's father, *Tve_ got .1 thousand acres up there anel l—l liko animals."

"I used to raise hawses," said Mr Kempis, without regrets; indeed, as if he were grateful for the memory. "Don't say anything," whispered Juno's father excitedly. "My wife doesn't know about only one, but I've got a carload of saddle stock. Chief and Chester and Squirrel strains—best in the world outeido of Arabia—and I'm shipping them Nor:h to my Michigan plaeo with a trainer. I'll catch it for a day or two from my wife, but the horses are worth it!''

Mr Kempis shook with glee, nodded to his breast, and back again, and blew forth interstellar spaces fuJl of smoke. Maxino lost interest. It was her bedtime; and as no one camo for her, sho scrambled into Mr Kempis's lap, with the confidence of ono climbing into a familiar bed. Sho had learned to engineer her own griefs and had not sought June that afternoon, thinking it lx>st to accustom herself to the va-cancy-to-be.

"That nmst-a—that must-a be a pretty good place—that thousand acres o' yourn," Mr Kempis said softly. The dull little man did nob answer. His eyes roved quickly from the tight, white little mouth to the wrinkled beaming countenaneo above. Mr Kempis had reached that great age when his joys could be quite impersonal. "Yes, sir," he repeated low and jubilantly, "that farm o' yourn an' all them animals must bo a pretty good place to live at!" "And there's a bij- lake with a sloping, yellow, sandy beach," June's father whispered, rising. Then he added : "I wish you a very goud night, sir."

Juno absorbed the truth the next morning, possibly sensed tho migratory spirit in the air. Her decision was this:

"I 'on't go an' leave 'Axine!" The above was delivered in the. sleeping room. There was consternation and things were spelled; also there were hushes. Tho elder two had a quick conference in tho hallway. "Not a word moro must even be whispered about it before June until we get away," the mother declared distractedly. "Wo must get on the train before sho realises and make the best of tho scene in the Pullman: June is so. unlike other children. It is perfectly ridiculous how she loves that forlorn child!"

In that last week of Kentucky, the dull little man had many affairs, , Indeed, his activities cinched in-tho town" mind the idea that he was a first-water capitalist. The trainer, the banker, Mrs Fealy, certain of the guests, including Mr Kempis and Maxine—all these and many more, occupied his hours. And then two days beforo tho date set for leaving, he was called out of town. During his absence, the horse trainer ne?ded him so badly and presented himself at his employer's rooms so frequently that Juno's mother was led to enquire into the. .truth—and learned about the carload lot of saddle horses. In the sumptuous, presence of Mrs Fealy she relaxed into grief.

'"If ho would only sell anything alivo!" sho moaned. "But ho won't! If you offered Jimmy to-morrow twice what he paid to-day for a dog or a cow or a hon, ho would get white and fidgetty and whimper that ho couldn't bear to part with it! Wo are live stock poor—actually live stock poor— and now he's away in Cincinnati— Heaven knows what for—buying armadillces probably!" Mrs Fealy was unnerved, but managed to reply that of all the boarders with whom she had ever dealt—and their number was thousands—Juno's father was among the pleasantest and mosi gentlemanly. On the night beforo the noon of departure, the dull little man returned. He was always calm in victory. His demeanour now was especially slow and easy, as he placed in the lap of Juno's mother documents attesting to the sale of certain oil lands in Michigan, the amount for which ran well up into five figures. June's mother, admired the manner and presence of money. A balm settled upon the trunk packing. Tho crime of the carload of 6ons and daughters of those old saddle aristocrats, Chief'and Chester and Squirrel, was forgotten. Juno was sent.with Maxine into Mr Kempis's room at nine the next morn- ' ing to be spared the revelation which tho last of the packing inevitably would furnish. She was not thought of until eleven, when the bus which was to take them to th© depot was but fifteen minutes away. Tho trunks wero already gone. It now developed that Juno was not in the building. The bus rumbled up Main street, loud as a lone bumble be© in a deserted summer kitchen, and still the child had not been found; neither was Mr Kempis in his room. The mother was frantic ; tho dull little man pale but calm. "My dear," ho said masterfully, "June is- not dead or mutilated. She is out to play somewhere —puffictly safe —and thero are other trains. In fact, there is one at four this afternoon which will rand us on th© farm for dinner to-morrow." "Go and find June!" the mother shrieked. Mrs Fealy came in weakly to enquire if .Maxine had been there. She departed hastily. An anguished whisper came from June's mother: "They understand! They are desperate from love for each other, and have gone away to kill I themselves. I know children!" '"No, not that." the dull little man 6aid, and addt-d half coherently: "I always said, though, that they had an uncommon love for each other. And poor little Maxine! She answered so to good treatment, and really June sees something perfect in her." He did not dare to look into the staring eyes of his wifo who sat hunched and desolate on the edge of the bed.

"And Maxine—she is so sweet and wise for her age!"' he faltered, fumbling with tho door knob. "Our Father in Heaven,*" the mother cried terribly, 'are you still standing there ? Go out and search! Get the police!" He crossed the street to the livery barn, and a few minutes later, drove out the Harvard-burg pik© exactly- on© mile. There ho overtook another liv-<-ry outfit. Indeed, the latter ]ia_ halted by the way, and the figures of June, Maxine, and Mr Kempis were not hard to discern at the edge of th© pike, deep in th© wild-bells and sweet grass.

He sent Mr Kempis back alone and 1 wok the children in his own buggy. And presently the dull little man had the joy of restoring tho mother's soul. "You see, my dear," he explained between her paroxysms, "poor old "Kempis didn't understand. They gave him a rig at the stables to do an crrend— he hangs round there, you know, my doiu-— a ,.d the poor old fellow m his dotage, didn't quite understand wo were going so soon. And say, the three or 'em were picking wild flowers and_ they did look pretty and appealing!" June was gazing at the stripped room. Suddenly she burst into a scene of the furies. That Maxino must not be left behind was the impulse and' the burden. ~ . "Guess -we'd better take Maxine along—for June!" the dull little man ventured. June's mother raised her face from half cuddling, half repressing the clamouring mite in her arms. j "Do you suppose,."' she projected scornfully, between the tempests of June, "do you suppose that you can "Maxine- mother—in Cincinnati!" buy Maxino —like one of your fillies or collies?" "Mrs Fealy, my dear—Mrs Fealy says wo can take her." "Do you. suppose," was returned, with-rising inflection, '.'that) I would "take Maxine on a temporary arrangement, and .then have her mother call for her when we had begun to get attached—if such a thing were possible— to the child?" ' , »

The dull little man made a pretence, of "wiping dampness- from his face to hide the twitch of his lips. "Maxine's "•mother," he replied,-with a cough,' •'says an arrangement-—er—may be made on a permanent basis." "You see, my dear, I had to go there about my oil wells. You see, my dear, awaiting your' sanction; —-" The squally din from June increased to such a pitch now. that the man found it possible to steal forth into the hall. There, he wigwagged a signal of victoiy to Mrs Fealy who stood a"t the far end, and mad© his way hastily out into the air. At four thnt afternoon, the North bound Pullman contained them all. even the boarding-house child and Putta, the patch-haired. Mrs Fealy finally had been disembraced and stood now—her ample face a blend of smiles and tears—outside the window with others of the town who refused to say good-bye until the last moment. There was still a nervous look upon the face of the dull little irian. Even though the train moved, the air in the coach was hot and still. The porter had given them seats well forward. "The smoke is actually thick here," complained June's mother. "It's like the -" . ". At,this instant in the smoking com I p_rtment just ahead the old voice was piped: "Yes, sir—big farm up in Michigan! Hundteds o' hnins an' dawgs, an' just shippin' twenty . haid o 1 hawses " Then'camo the halting quaver as," Mr Kempis gathered himself to finish. June's mother sank her head in the cushions. "It's only for a visit," the dull little man said tremulously. "It ain't in nature for him to he with us long, a-d it seemed to mc as if the good old man would just fit into that back stoop of ours with tho honeysuckles. And, my dear, we're rich and we can't afford to be stingy." ""Our Father in Heaven, Jimmy," sho gasped at length, "how you do love animals!" It was all over, and easier far than he had anticipated.