Part 7 (2/2)

”Yes, ma'am.”

Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he could oblige her.

”Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?” asked she.

”Yes, ma'am.”

”What was the book?” Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she spoke.

”Poetry.”

Cora laughed. ”Poetry is odd for a boy,” said she. ”You should have read a book of travels or history. Good night, Johnny.”

”Good night, mother.”

Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of medicines, coming up from his study. But his father did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of history and more knowledge of excursions into realms of old romance than his elders had ever known during much longer lives than his.

Johnny confided in n.o.body at first. His feeling nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings; he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as Robin Hood's Maid Marion. Then he dismissed the idea peremptorily. Lily Jennings would simply laugh. He knew her. Moreover, she was a girl, and not to be trusted. Johnny felt the need of another boy who would be a kindred spirit; he wished for more than one boy.

He wished for a following of heroic and lawless souls, even as Robin Hood's. But he could think of n.o.body, after considerable study, except one boy, younger than himself. He was a beautiful little boy, whose mother had never allowed him to have his golden curls cut, although he had been in trousers for quite a while. However, the trousers were foolish, being knickerbockers, and accompanied by low socks, which revealed pretty, dimpled, babyish legs. The boy's name was Arnold Carruth, and that was against him, as being long, and his mother firm about allowing no nickname. Nicknames in any case were not allowed in the very exclusive private school which Johnny attended.

Arnold Carruth, in spite of his being such a beautiful little boy, would have had no standing at all in the school as far as popularity was concerned had it not been for a strain of mischief which triumphed over curls, socks, and pink cheeks and a much-kissed rosebud of a mouth.

Arnold Carruth, as one of the teachers permitted herself to state when relaxed in the bosom of her own family, was ”as choke-full of mischief as a pod of peas. And the worst of it all is,” quoth the teacher, Miss Agnes Rector, who was a pretty young girl, with a hidden sympathy for mischief herself--”the worst of it is, that child looks so like a cherub on a rosy cloud that even if he should be caught n.o.body would believe it. They would be much more likely to accuse poor little Andrew Jackson Green, because he has a snub nose and is a bit cross-eyed, and I never knew that poor child to do anything except obey rules and learn his lessons. He is almost too good. And another worst of it is, n.o.body can help loving that little imp of a Carruth boy, mischief and all. I believe the scamp knows it and takes advantage of it.”

It is quite possible that Arnold Carruth did profit unworthily by his beauty and engagingness, albeit without calculation. He was so young, it was monstrous to believe him capable of calculation, of deliberate trading upon his a.s.sets of birth and beauty and fascination. However, Johnny Trumbull, who was wide awake and a year older, was alive to the situation. He told Arnold Carruth, and Arnold Carruth only, about Robin Hood and his great scheme.

”You can help,” said this wise Johnny; ”you can be in it, because n.o.body thinks you can be in anything, on account of your wearing curls.”

Arnold Carruth flushed and gave an angry tug at one golden curl which the wind blew over a shoulder. The two boys were in a secluded corner of Madame's lawn, behind a clump of j.a.panese cedars, during an intermission.

”I can't help it because I wear curls,” declared Arnold with angry shame.

”Who said you could? No need of getting mad.”

”Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls cut off,” said Arnold. ”You needn't think I want to have curls like a girl, Johnny Trumbull.”

”Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short stockings, either.”

”Like to!” Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled leg, then of the other.

”First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull.

My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some things.”

”Most women are queer,” agreed Johnny, ”but my aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd cut 'em off herself.”

”Wish she was my aunt,” said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. ”A feller needs a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?”

”I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle Jonathan used to preach, you know.”

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