Part 19 (1/2)

The fellows expressed their regret and then in responses to a few kindly questions put by Mr. Hollis, they learned that Shorty's ambition was to obtain a thorough musical education. They learned too that for two years past he had been the soloist in the boy choir of one of the prominent churches in New York. He had joined the boy choir because there he could gain, without cost, a knowledge of sight reading and voice control.

Bert's ”Won't you sing something for us, Phil?” was not to be resisted and after a moment's thought his clear notes rose in a burst of melody:

”Cast thy bread upon the waters”----

The boys fairly held their breath as the flutelike notes of one of the finest voices they had ever heard, floated off into the woodland s.p.a.ces.

When he had finished, every one sat spellbound, paying the highest tribute of a moment of perfect silence. Even when the silence was broken by hearty hand clapping, the spell of the music still brooded over them.

It had been too fine for noisy applause.

The boys' appreciation of his singing was very grateful to Phil, and not the least tribute was Tom's: ”Gee, Phil, I hope the birds didn't wake up to hear that. They would have been green with envy.”

The tension was broken by Sam's asking: ”What does that mean, 'Cast thy bread upon the waters'--and how can it return?” Mr. Hollis was glad to explain that no kind deed or word is ever wasted, but is sure to return blessings on the one who gave it, if only in the glow that a kind action always brings.

But, uplifted as the boys had been, it is not in boy nature to stay long upon the heights and they soon came down to earth again.

Jim showed how fully he had come back to earth by remarking as he suddenly remembered that owing to a miscalculation as to the elastic nature of a boy's capacity, both flour and corn meal had given out, and that in consequence, nothing in the shape of bread had come their way that night: ”I wish some real bread were coming tomorrow. I am not particular about its coming by water. It can get here any old way, as long as it comes.”

The sound of someone approaching the camp aroused them. Irish Kitty appeared, with a big basket on one arm and a great bunch of red roses in her ap.r.o.n.

As soon as the boys saw the flowers, a shout went up: ”Roses! roses!

What beauties!” and on Kitty saying that she had counted them and there was one for each, they were seized upon and distributed in a twinkling.

Now, Kitty stated that she had a ”prisint for the young gintlemin” from her mother, Mrs. Harrigan, ”to thank thim for the foine illigant ride in the artymobile.”

The big basket was uncovered and there lay revealed to the eyes of the delighted boys a number of large loaves of delicious homemade bread.

One did not need to taste that bread to know its value. The firm white loaves spoke for themselves. Corn bread they had in plenty every day, but white wheat flour bread was not included in their regular camp rations, so that this was indeed a treat. They were all devouring it already in imagination, and each wished it were morning so that they might begin in reality.

Kitty departed amid ”Good nights” and hearty thanks to her mother, and, camp bed time having arrived, all drifted toward their tents, Tom gaily singing:

”'Tis a name That no shame Has iver been connected with Harrigan! That's me.”

All at once some one shouted: ”Look at Ben Cooper.” They turned to see Ben standing like a statue, eyes fixed on nothing, staring straight ahead of him.

”Say, fellows,” said he, ”that bread that we cast on the waters on our way home from the doctor's the other day sure did come back, didn't it?”

”It certainly did and it didn't take 'many days' either to get here,”

said Tom.

”And,” chimed in Shorty, ”a big bunch of red roses thrown in, too.”

”Yes, Caruso,” added Bert, throwing his arm affectionately over Phil's shoulder, ”you must be a prophet as well as a singer.”

Very soon the tired boys were off to dreamland, where visions of loaves of fluffy white bread, each loaf with a red rose growing out of it, floated about, and imaginative Dave dreamed that old Biddy made a ”prisint” of a loaf to each one, singing in a high cracked voice as she handed them around: ”Harrigan! That's me!”

CHAPTER XVIII