SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3337, 27 February 1918, Page 58

SHORT STORIES.

V THE CRACKLED HAT. By L. B. Walfohd. (Copyright.) Eddy Rich was very poor, which was a Bad thing, Eddy being who he was, and what he was. , , , Many a boy of born and bred in a country parsonage, and accustomed to small ways and petty economies from his youth up, is either philosophical on the subject, or, if - rebellious against Fate,' registers a'secret Warren Hastings sort of T ow—that he will, with his own- bow and spear, make or remake the family fortunes. Eddy was neither resigned nor courageous. He simply strove to hide his shame—for to him penury was shame, —and he was sometimes very miserable over it. Let us be just to Eddy. He was absolutely-sincere in his convictions, and; could'not if he would shake them off. The poor parson's son had somehow or ' other arrived into a rough, coarse, and often cruel Environment to such as he, hyper-charged with refinement, and brimful of ideals. He loved things beautiful, noble, and stately. He had an inborn taste for splendour, a veritable passion for the march of routine, and the formalities ot etiquette. Everything that was solemn and traditional appealed to his imagination; historic dwellings, or even the great * houses of the present day, had a charm for him which'was in its way pathetic. At home they called the lad "haughty, ' and teased him unmercifully about his "airs and graces." Who was he that he bore himself as though he were a prince of the blood? He was too grand for anything. When vexed, they said sharp things about it. .. But. they, were not' often vexed. The father —a weak, stupid man—found an endless source of amusement in Eddy's disgust at this thing and that, while the mother, equally callous, was, if anything, ' proud of it. "La! wherever did he get such high notions?" she would exclaim ,to the three handsome, trolloping girls, whose appearance* and manners hurt Eddy more' than all the rest; upon which they would join in the laugh, shrug their shoulders, and torment their brother playfully, 7" little guessing that their "fun" was " death ' ; ' to him, as in the fable. •? - Eddy felt; though not even to .himself would he put the feeling into woras, that his sisters were common; thalj they had common minds, common manners, common «• clothes —yes, he even included the clothes, since every fresh /acquisition i invariably gave him a shock. But gradually he grew more and more reticent and more careful in his demeanour towards his home and its inmates. It-was useless to try to improve matters, and ho shrank from the ridicule Excited by any sort of "attempt at this. He suffered, and was silent. But it was. a relief for all when the youth was offered a berth in a city office by an influential connection, who (to ' himself) supposed anything was good enough for the son ,'o'f that stupid ass, Tom Rich, who had never been able to get himself out of the Essex mud, having .' stuck .fast in it twenty years before. Sir Henry Mitcham had just enough of a contemptuous liking, for his old school-fellow, who was also his second cousin, to be 1 glad to confer a favour which cost him nothing. A 'friend wanted a new clerk; he asked the friend. to try .•Eddy Rich; and the thing was done. The thing was done, and in most cases thafr- would have been the end of the '• matter; but Sir Henry chanced to call on the said friend, who had charge of his investments, and young Rich was sent for , to the private room. Eddy was very quiet. He' had now been installed a month, and it was the longest month he had ever oassed in his life; also the hardest. All his brains wererequired to compass the work he had to do,. and he looked pale and fagged as he presented'himself before his principal. " Poor' devil!" muttered Sir Henry Mitcham to himself. He was something' of an observer. But he addressed Eddy cheerfully, and In an easy, off-hand fashion invited him to lunch in Grosvenor.!.square on the following Sunday. " At two o'clock. Mustn't keep you now, I know, but we shall expect you on Sunday at two"; he repeated with a dismissing shake of a couple of fingers, and his eye 3 followed the retreating figure to the door. ' Then he thus delivered himself: "A nice, quiet, gentlemanly lad. . Lady Mitcham will be quite glad to have him at luncheon, eh? She is rather particular about her luncheons " —laughing. "but this time I should say it's all right, eh? I came a cropper lately. That makes me careful, very careful. However," and lie was heard murmuring and explaining 4o himself as he sought his hat and stick. But if the giver of the invitation were a shade perturbed on the score of it, what shall be said of its recipient? Eddy was fiimnly confounded. Nothing of the kind had yet happened to him, and that verv morning,, strange to say, as he wended his way through Grosvenor square to catch his bus in Oxford street, he had looked wistfully up at the stately houses, with their beflowered windows and balconies, and wondered if he should ever ring a door-bell under one of those imposing "porticoes-. He had ceased to expect that the Mitchams would take notice of him. Even his short experience of London life had taught h'im • that this was improbable; and, in consequence, the surprise of being invited in so frank and easy a fashion was almost staggering. Moreover, it had its dark side. He had decided that for a while he could do without a new top-hat, which lie badly needed. So much money had been spent

on the barest necessaries for his humble lodgings, and so much beside on the equipment absolutely - indispensable for himself in his new sphere, that he had nothing over for —he pulled himself together almost savagely, as these reflections rushed through his mind, t A hat he must have. There were three days before Sunday, and in those three days, "I must-raise the wind somehow" ; he set his teeth, and drummed with hi 3 fingers on the window-ledge, "I must." All very well to say "I must," but the "How?" was a poser. Borrow? No. .No, that-would be too awful; that would tell tales at once. He had no really intimate associates, and had none of the devil-may-care camaraderie which would have laid bare the situation as a jest. What about writing home? But at home they would think him a perfect fool for his x pains. If he wanted to go to the Mitchams, he could surely go, and blow the hat? Mentally he heard his sisters giggling, and his mother's foolish pity: "Poor dear; always will think so much about j appearances." Always has, you know."j In tjie end, a scarfpHn, bequeathed to Eddy by aH uncle, found its way to another "uncle," arid no one would have believed how much it cost the poor boy to part with it. It was the-one tiling of value which he possessed in the world. We need not, however, linger over this transaction, nor dwell upon the ups and downs of anticipation and dejection which racked my hapless hero's mind whenever the great event, in prospect loomed before it. And when did it not loom? The strangest, most out-of-the-way subjects had a knack of being connected with it by some invisible link; paths obscure and dim led to it as their, goal. . - i "Take care, child. Oh, Irene,, take care!" But the last "take care," though uttered in an agonised undertone, came too late. The little girl, to whom it was addressed,' was looking engagingly at the very attractive young man by whom she was about to seat herself in church, and her sister, another fair little /patric:..n creature, was bustling her forward, and she had already knocked down a prayer book or two, which had evoked the first warning from her mother, and; altogether she never saw anything, butv whirled round her skirts and—it happened. Miss Irene Something-or-other, who was a fine, well-developed personage for her age, plumped right, on to the top of something already in possession of the seat selected as her own, and, oh, horror! it crackled andNsank beneath her weight! We say "Oh, horror!" but no horror at all invaded the delinquent's breast. She froze the blood in Eddy Rich's veins, and —she laughed. «* 'She did more than laugh; she, and Muriel - also, the other small creature at her side, bent, and swayed, and wept in an ecstacy of merriment that ; worst of all, provoked sympathetic smiles on the faces of all whd saw. -_•„ :\ And this was what they said of it afterwards : "Oh, it was funny; it was very) very funny; To sit down on a man's hat! On a strange man's hat,! ; And he was a young man, too, and awfully angry! Oh, he was angry! It was too splendid. And how the hat did crackle! It went crack, crack, crack—just like/that. And the man glared, at her—(this from, Muriel)— and mummy tried to get at the man to apologise, and couldn't, because the service had begun. And'-the hat? Irene and she couldn't look at the hat, because whenever they did they screamed again.

" Indeed, they -were two very naughty little girls," said Lady Mitcham afterwards, "and, Henry"—for she was talking the scene over with her, husband--, "something or other must be done for that poor Eddy boy, or his face will haunt me to my dying day. The anguish, the despair of it!" ' , ," " Aye, aye," said he, nodding his £ead. "I-'daresay, I daresay." "You see, I know," proceeded L,ady Mitcham, softly, "for I have been poor, which you never have. I know what such a misfortune would have meant once to me. And I am sure, certain, that, however much he tried to command himself that boy's heart was breaking." ' , 7l Oh, come, my dear! Heart-breaking for a trumpery thing like that? The hat can be blocked fresh, and will be as good as new." " Henry, yoiu can't understand. I tell you, before that boy pulled himself together, and tried to pass it off with a smile, his face was dreadful —dreadful." " And he had to sit out the service, too, poor chap! Well, Mary, I do feel for him, though you mayn't think it. Now, tell me about Irene? Is she given to faints?" "Never had.one before; but the church was crowded, and so hot. I did not notice anything, and was only thankful the monkeys had stopped giggling, for they seemed a 3 if they would never get over it—and it was funny, Henry " "I daresay. Well?" " All at once she went down, right under the seat, and he, the' boy, dived after her, and just giving me one look, fished her out, and carried her away down the aisle. When Muriel and I caught up with them in the porch, he still had her in his arms, and was soothing her and telling her not to be frightened, in the nicest, gentlest voice, and with the sweetest smile "

"That fetched you. But how did you get to know who he was?" " Of course, he couldn't ba allowed to walk about the streets with that battered hat on, Henry —and, bv the way, I had to carry it down the church to him, —so I said we would take him in the car, which was, happily, at the door. And he was refusing —in'fact, he had refused, and—and—l really forget. When I gave the address he got as red as_ fire, and stammered out that he was coming to this bouse, too! 'At least, I was coming,'

he said, ' but I can't present myself," and he looked at the hat, and then the children burst forth again, and this time he laughed, too, and we just hauled him in. I said if he didn't come it would reflect disgrace upon them—upon Irene, at least, —and—and that's all. But you will do something for him, -won't you?"

It was a trifling circumstance from first to lasty-but that crackled hat made Eddy's fortune. Had he not betrayed his real feelings so utterly' at the first, Lady Mitcham might never have suspected them, and had he not been so tenderly kind and forgiving to the small author of the tragedy thereafter; neither she, nor Sir Henry, who was a devoted father, might have bestowed upon him any Teal notice. But, being what he was, Eddy himself clinched the matter. He was just to their taste. His career was assured. And soon he was so completely at home in. the G-rosvenor squ/re mansion, as well as at the Mitchams' country seat, • that he was often*' mistaken for a son of the house. Perhaps—who knows?—he will be that some day.