he was in prison and left him a pot of money. But what good will it do him? He is branded.”
“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Timothy. “But nine years is a very long time. Haven’t people forgotten?”
“Some people never forget. His wife’s sisters for instance. They were very hard on him. How he hated them! He brooded all those years on getting square with them when he came out.”
“How?”
“There is a way. He could take something from them that they want very much to keep. And he’s lonely ... he wants companionship ... he’s very lonely. I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon. But you mustn’t think I haven’t enjoyed myself. It’s been something to remember for a long time. Now, I suppose you want to get back before your aunts come home?”
“Yes. But just so they won’t get worried. I’m going to tell them about this, of course.”
“Won’t they scold you?”
“Likely they will. But scolding doesn’t break any bones, as Linda says,” remarked Timothy philosophically.
“I don’t think they will scold you much ... not if you get the head start of them with a message I’m sending them by you. You got that present for your aunt’s birthday, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But there is one thing. I’ve got that ten cents yet, you know. I’d like to buy some flowers with it and go over to the park and put them at the base of the soldier’s monument. Because my father was a brave soldier, you know.”
“Was he killed in South Africa?”
“Oh, no. He came back and married mother. He was in a bank, too. Then he died.”
“Yes, he died,” said Mr. Jenkins, when they had reached The Corner. “And,” he added, “I fancy he’ll stay dead.”
Timothy was rather shocked. It seemed a queer way to speak of anyone ... what Aunt Kathleen would call flippant. Still, he couldn’t help liking Mr. Jenkins.
“Well, good-bye, son,” said Mr. Jenkins.
“Won’t I see you again?” asked Timothy wistfully. He felt that he would like to see Mr. Jenkins again.
“I’m afraid not. I’m going away ... far away. That friend of mine ... he’s going far away ... to some new land ... and I think I’ll go, too. He’s lonely, you know. I must look after him a bit.”
“Will you tell your friend I’m sorry he’s lonely ... and I hope he won’t be always lonely.”
“I’ll tell him. And will you give your aunts a message for me?”
“Can’t you give it to them yourself? You said you were coming back to see them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t manage it after all. Tell them not to worry over that letter you got this morning. They needn’t go to their lawyer again to see ... if the person who wrote it has the power to do what he threatened to do. I know him quite well and he has changed his mind. Tell them he is going away and will never bother them again. You can remember that, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes. And they won’t be worried any more?”
“Not by that person. Only there’s this ... tell them they must cut out those music lessons and put raisins in the Friday pudding and let you have a light to go to sleep by. If they don’t ... that person might bother them again.”
“I’ll tell them about the music lessons and the pudding, but,” said Timothy sturdily, “not about the light if it’s all the same to that person. You see, I mustn’t be a coward. My dad wasn’t a coward. If you see that person will you please tell him that?”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Ask Dr. Blythe about it. I went to college with him and I fancy he knows what’s what. And this is for your own ear, son. We’ve had a fine time and it’s all right as it happens. But take my advice and never go off with a stranger again.”
Timothy squeezed Mr. Jenkins’ hard hand.
“But you aren’t a stranger,” he said wistfully.
The Second Evening
T HE N EW H OUSE
Milk-white against the hills of pine
Behind your aspens’ shaking gold
You wait for me; I fondly hold
Your key and know that
“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Timothy. “But nine years is a very long time. Haven’t people forgotten?”
“Some people never forget. His wife’s sisters for instance. They were very hard on him. How he hated them! He brooded all those years on getting square with them when he came out.”
“How?”
“There is a way. He could take something from them that they want very much to keep. And he’s lonely ... he wants companionship ... he’s very lonely. I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon. But you mustn’t think I haven’t enjoyed myself. It’s been something to remember for a long time. Now, I suppose you want to get back before your aunts come home?”
“Yes. But just so they won’t get worried. I’m going to tell them about this, of course.”
“Won’t they scold you?”
“Likely they will. But scolding doesn’t break any bones, as Linda says,” remarked Timothy philosophically.
“I don’t think they will scold you much ... not if you get the head start of them with a message I’m sending them by you. You got that present for your aunt’s birthday, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But there is one thing. I’ve got that ten cents yet, you know. I’d like to buy some flowers with it and go over to the park and put them at the base of the soldier’s monument. Because my father was a brave soldier, you know.”
“Was he killed in South Africa?”
“Oh, no. He came back and married mother. He was in a bank, too. Then he died.”
“Yes, he died,” said Mr. Jenkins, when they had reached The Corner. “And,” he added, “I fancy he’ll stay dead.”
Timothy was rather shocked. It seemed a queer way to speak of anyone ... what Aunt Kathleen would call flippant. Still, he couldn’t help liking Mr. Jenkins.
“Well, good-bye, son,” said Mr. Jenkins.
“Won’t I see you again?” asked Timothy wistfully. He felt that he would like to see Mr. Jenkins again.
“I’m afraid not. I’m going away ... far away. That friend of mine ... he’s going far away ... to some new land ... and I think I’ll go, too. He’s lonely, you know. I must look after him a bit.”
“Will you tell your friend I’m sorry he’s lonely ... and I hope he won’t be always lonely.”
“I’ll tell him. And will you give your aunts a message for me?”
“Can’t you give it to them yourself? You said you were coming back to see them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t manage it after all. Tell them not to worry over that letter you got this morning. They needn’t go to their lawyer again to see ... if the person who wrote it has the power to do what he threatened to do. I know him quite well and he has changed his mind. Tell them he is going away and will never bother them again. You can remember that, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes. And they won’t be worried any more?”
“Not by that person. Only there’s this ... tell them they must cut out those music lessons and put raisins in the Friday pudding and let you have a light to go to sleep by. If they don’t ... that person might bother them again.”
“I’ll tell them about the music lessons and the pudding, but,” said Timothy sturdily, “not about the light if it’s all the same to that person. You see, I mustn’t be a coward. My dad wasn’t a coward. If you see that person will you please tell him that?”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Ask Dr. Blythe about it. I went to college with him and I fancy he knows what’s what. And this is for your own ear, son. We’ve had a fine time and it’s all right as it happens. But take my advice and never go off with a stranger again.”
Timothy squeezed Mr. Jenkins’ hard hand.
“But you aren’t a stranger,” he said wistfully.
The Second Evening
T HE N EW H OUSE
Milk-white against the hills of pine
Behind your aspens’ shaking gold
You wait for me; I fondly hold
Your key and know that
Similar Books
