Father Pat gave her another bow, and a gallant one. "Faith, Mrs. Kukor,"

said he, "the good Lord I worship was a Hebrew lad from the hills o'

Judea."

Next, Mrs. Kukor had a look at the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled with many excited exclamations of delight. After that, there was ice cream and raisin cake, enough for all. Every one served, the priest and Mrs. Kukor were soon chatting away in the friendliest fashion.

It was then that a regrettable accident occurred. In spite of the fact that the ice cream was in a melting condition, and the cake deliciously soft and crumbling, one of those several dental bridges of the Father's suddenly became detached, as it were, from its moorings, and had to be rolled up in one corner of a handkerchief and consigned to a pocket.

Amid general condolences then, the priest explained that the happening was not wholly unexpected, since, in choosing a dentist, he had let his heart, rather than his head, guide his selection, and had given the work to an old and struggling man whose methods were undoubtedly obsolete.

"But ye see," he concluded, "I knew at the time that the work would far outlast the necessity for it, since I'll not be needin' anny teeth very long"--a statement the full meaning of which fortunately escaped the comprehension of his two young hearers. "But ye might say," he went on, "that neither the cake nor the cream have put a strain on that bridge, so I'll not be blamin' the dentist. For ye see, it's like this: when I've somethin' betwixt me teeth that's substantial, the danger to the bridges is far less. It's when I've nothin' that I do them the most damage, havin' so much grip t' me jaws, and not annything t' work it out on."

Mrs. Kukor now rose to take her leave, explaining how it happened that she did not want to have Mr. Barber discover her there, since, if the longsh.o.r.eman were to decide that she was interfering in any way--too much--he might, she feared, remove his household to some other, and distant, flat, where she could not be near the children--oy! oy! oy!

Father Pat gave her his address. "Some day," he declared, "ye might be wantin' t' send me a picture post card, in which case ye'd need t' know where I live"--a remark which made Johnnie believe that the Father must be particularly fond of picture post cards! "But now and again, I'll drop in t' see ye," promised the priest, "and t' have a cup o' kosher tea! Shure, ma'am, in anny troublesome matter, two heads is better than one, even if one has been ga.s.sed!"

Mrs. Kukor gone, Father Pat began to take thought of his own leaving.

But first he set about cheering up his new, young friends, who were subdued, to say the least, this in spite of the refreshments. "Now, shure, and there's things about this place which could be far, far worse," he a.s.serted. "In this shady bit o' flat, ye're shut up, I grant it. But consider what ye're shut away from--ugly things, like fightin'

and callin' names"--his argument being intended chiefly for Johnnie.

"And I don't mind about my old clothes," declared the latter stoutly.

"Anyhow, I don't mind 'cause they're raggy. All I'm sorry for is that my rags don't _fit_."

Afterward he concluded that there must have been something rather sensible about this remark of his--something calculated to win approval.

For the Father suddenly reached out and took Johnnie into his arms, and gave him a bearish hug, and laughed, and wiped the green eyes (which were br.i.m.m.i.n.g), and laughed again, finally falling into a coughing fit that sent Johnnie pell-mell for a cup of water and made Cis wait in concern beside the morris chair.

The cough quieted soon, and again Father Pat was able to talk. "Did ye ever hear another lad like him?" he inquired of no one in particular.

"Ah, G.o.d love him! He doesn't mind his rags, only he wishes that they fit! Dear, dear, rich, little, poor boy!"

After he was gone, Johnnie and Cis sat in silence for a good while, their young hearts being too full, and their brains too busy, for speech. But at last, "Oh, why didn't we ever know him before!" mourned Cis. "He lives close by, and he's not afraid of _anything_!"

"He's my friend for life!" vowed Johnnie. "And, oh, Cis, this is who's like Galahad!--not Mister Perkins at _all_! Mister Perkins is like--like Sir Percival, that's who _he's_ like. But Father Pat (don't y' _love_ the name!) he could sit on the Per'lous Seat, y' betcher life!--Oh, if _only_ his hair wasn't red!"

When she had a.s.sured him that red was a most desirable color for hair, since it meant a splendid fighting spirit, he had to know all she could tell him about priests, which was a good deal. "They can marry you, and they can bury you," she began. "And they preach, and pray about a hundred times as much as anybody else, and that's one reason why he's so good. If you've done anything wicked, though, you've got to tell a priest about it, and----"

"I'll tell him about the toothbrush," promised Johnnie. "I won't mind tellin' him, some way or other, anyhow, and it's bothered me, Cis, quite a lot--oh, yes, it has!"

Cis did not mind the Father's knowing about their bargain; provided, however, that she herself be allowed to tell Mr. Perkins. She felt better already in her conscience, she declared, and even sang as she set about rearranging her roses. Each one of these she named with a girl's name, Johnnie a.s.sisting; and the two were able, by the curl of a petal, or the number of leaves on a stem, or some other tiny sign, to tell Cora from Alice, and Elaine from Blanchefleur, and the Princess Mary from Buddir al Buddoor, as well as to recognize Rebecca, and Julia, and Anastasia, and Gertie, and June--and so on through a list that made little G.o.dmothers to the rosebuds out of Cis's favorite acquaintances at the paper-box factory.

Big Tom had little to say when he returned, but that little was pleasant enough. When he went to bed, he left his door wide. Grandpa had been allowed to stay beside the kitchen window, and there Cis brought a quilt and pillow, her own room being unbearably close and hot. As for Johnnie, quite openly and boldly he shouldered his roll of bedding and took it to the roof! (For after what Father Pat had told them that day, could he, being a boy, fail to do the daring thing? Also, were they not now under the protecting care of a red-headed fighter?)

Arrived on the roof, he did not lie down, but walked to and fro. A far-off band was playing in the summer night, at some pier or in an open s.p.a.ce, and its music could be faintly heard. Children were shouting as they returned from the Battery. The grind of street cars came in low waves, not unlike the rhythmic beat of the seas which he had never seen.

He shut his ears to every sound. Eastward loomed up the iron network of the bridges, delicate and beautiful against the starlit sky. South, and near by, cl.u.s.tered the masts of scores of ships. North and West were the sky-piercing tops of the city's highest buildings. Sights as well as sounds were softened and glorified by the night, and by distance. But he saw--as he heard--nothing of what was around him. He felt himself lifted high above it all--away from it.

That was because his spirit was uplifted. Just as Big Tom, with his harsh methods, his ignorance, his lack of sympathy and his surly tongue, could bring out any trait that was bad in him, and at the same time plant a few that did not exist, just so could Father Pat, kindly, wise, gentle, gracious and manly, bring out every trait that was good. And for a while at least, the priest had downed and driven out every vestige of hatred and bitterness and revenge from the boy's heart.

Johnnie did not even think of Barber, or what the longsh.o.r.eman had done that day. In his brain was a picture which thrilled and held him, if at the same time it tortured him--a picture that he saw too keenly, and that would not go away. It was of that brave Englishwoman, face to face with her executioners.

What a story!

He shook his head over it, comparing it with _Treasure Island_ and all the others, and wishing he had it written down, and marveling again over the rare courage of its heroine. To be scolded and whipped was one thing; it was quite another to be stood up against a wall in front of a line of guns. And he remembered that he--a boy--had not been able, this very day, to take even a strapping! What if he had been asked to accept death?

How far away--yes, as if it were days and days ago!--seemed that order of Big Tom's to go out and sell Cis's flowers! That was because this wonderful, heart-moving tragedy of Edith Cavell's had happened in between! As the sky slowly became overcast, and the darkness deepened, he set himself to think the nurse there on the roof beside him--a whiteclad, slender figure.

He had done her a wrong in questioning the bravery of girls, and she had died with her hands tied! "Oh, my!" he breathed apologetically to the picture which his imagination made of her, "if I was only _half_ as brave as you!"

He could keep her there before him not longer than a moment. Then she wavered and went, and he found himself standing beside his blanket roll.

Though he covered his eyes to make his pretend more vivid, she would not return.

However, she was to come again one day--to come and sustain him in an hour of dreadful trial that was ahead, though now, mercifully, he did not know it. And there was to be another story, just as thrilling, if not more so, which also would help him in that hour; and, later on, would carry him through darker ones.

With new visions in his brain, and new resolutions in his boy's heart, he took up the bedding bundle and went back to the flat. There he fell asleep in a room where seventeen pink rosebuds spread their perfume.

CHAPTER XXVII

ANOTHER GIFT

NEXT morning it was plain that the roses had brought about certain differences in the flat. Not that there were any blunt orders, or quarrels. Barber did not bring up the subject of Mr. Perkins and his gift; in fact, he did not even address Cis once, though he eyed her covertly now and again. But the good breakfast which Johnnie had risen early to prepare was eaten in a quiet that was strained, as if a storm were about to break. Johnnie could not keep his heart from thumping unpleasantly. And he was limp with relief when, a moment or two after Cis took her departure, the longsh.o.r.eman went scuffing out.

Then Johnnie's recovery was swift. On waking he had whisked the flowers into Cis's room, guessing that the mere sight of them would annoy Barber. Now he fetched them out, let Grandpa enjoy a whiff of their perfume, poured them fresh water (they held it like so many cups!), and carried them to the window so they might breathe some outdoor air. As it happened, that little girl with the dark hair was sitting on her fire escape. Spying her, Johnnie waved the blossoms at her, receiving in return a flashing smile.

He did not tarry long at the window. A scout does not fail to do a given task; and on this summer day, with the early sky already a hot gray-blue, the task to be done was the washing. Heat or no heat, the boiler had to take its place on the stove. The soapy steam of the cooking drove out the roses's scent of course, but that did not greatly matter so long as, every minute or so, Johnnie was able to turn from his washboard and enjoy their pink beauty.

By eleven o'clock he had the washing on the line. The flat was straightened up, too, and Grandpa was looking his best. About noon, Father Pat, coming slowly up the three flights, heard a series of slam bangings coming from the direction of the Barber flat--also, sharp toot-toots, and heavy chugs. And when the priest opened the hall door and peeped in, a conductor's bell was ding-dinging, while the empty wood box was careening madly in the wake of the wheel chair.

"Ha-ha-a! Johnnie lad!" he hailed. "And, shure, is it a whole battery in action that I'm seein'?"

Johnnie turned a pink and perspiring face which was suddenly all smiles.

To the joy of living a fascinating think was now added the joy of finding still another person who was ready to share it. "It's the biggest N'York S'press!" he declared. "And we're takin' our vacation trip!"

"Ah, little pretender!" exclaimed the Father, fondly, and with something like a note of pity. "But, oh, the idea o' me not recognizin' a train!

And especially the Twentieth Century Limited when I look her right in the headlight!"

"We been t' the Ad'rondacks," informed Johnnie, "and we got a load o'

ice."

"Ah, and that's treasure, truly," agreed the Father, "on this scorchin'

day! And ye've put the same into a grand casket, if I'm not mistaken"--indicating the box.

"A casket o' wood."

"But precious, what with coal so high!"

When the priest had settled himself in the morris chair, Johnnie came to lean close to this new friend who was both an understanding and a sympathetic soul. "Want t' hear a secret?" he half whispered.

Father Pat was as mysterious as possible. "Shure, and 'tis me business t' hear secrets," he whispered back. "And what's more, I never tell!"

"Well," confided Johnnie, "there's a lot o' my friends--Jim Hawkins, and Galahad, and Uncas, and, oh, dozens o' others--all just ready t' come in!"