First Base Faulkner

Christy Mathewson

Sensing a mix-up, Joe held the ball and raced for second base

“Lucky” Faulkner arrived in Amesville, Ohio, shortly before seven o’clock of a cold morning in the first week of January. He wasn’t known as “Lucky” then, and he certainly didn’t look especially fortunate as he stepped from train to platform and blinked drowsily at this first sight of the strange city that was to be his new home. He had travelled nearly six hours in a day-coach, sleeping fitfully with his head on the arm of the car seat, and his clothes were creased, his hair rumpled and his face tired and pale under its coating of train dust. He wore a good-looking gray ulster and a cap to match, and carried a big valise whose sides bulged tremendously and which bore the inscription “J. C. F.” in neat old English characters.

On the platform he set the bag down, took a trunk-check from a pigskin purse and gazed inquiringly about him. The passengers who had left the warmth of the cars had hurried to the restaurant to make the most of the ten minutes allowed them for breakfast, and it was much too early in the day for loiterers. It was a boy of about his own age—which was sixteen—who, stopped in his mad career of dragging a mail-sack along the platform, supplied information.

“Huh? Expressman? Sure! Around back. Ask for Gus Tenney.”

Gus, a small, crabbed-looking negro, was loading a huge sample-trunk into a ramshackle dray when discovered.

“I’ve got a trunk on this train,” said the new arrival. “Will you take it to Miss Teele’s, on Brewer Street, please? And how much will it be?”

“Brewer Street? What’s the number, Boss?”

“One-twenty-eight.”

“Fifty cents, Boss.”

“I’ll give you a quarter. Can you get it there by eight?”

“I can’t tote no trunk ’way up to Brewer Street for no quarter, Boss. You’ll have to get someone else to do it.”

“All right. Is there anyone else around?”

“Don’t see anyone, Boss. Reckon I’se the only one here.”

“Will you take my trunk up there first and let me ride along with you?”

“I got to deliver this to the Commercial House first, Boss.”

“How far is that from Brewer Street?”

“’Most a mile.”

“And Brewer Street’s near the City Hall, isn’t it?”

“Well, it ain’t so mighty far.”

“And the Commercial House is near the City Hall, too, isn’t it?”

“Look here, Boss,” said the negro peevishly, “maybe you-all knows my business better’n I do and maybe you don’t. I got to deliver this trunk right away ’cause the gentleman’s waitin’ for it.”

“All right. Don’t let me keep you, then.”

“Well, you give me that check an’ I’ll get your trunk up just as soon as I can, Boss.”

“No, I’ll wait for someone else. It isn’t worth more than a quarter.”

The negro hesitated and muttered as he gave the sample-trunk a final shove. Then: “All right, Boss, I’ll do it. Seems like folks nowadays don’t want anyone to make a livin’, I ’clare to goodness it does!”

“Will you get it there by eight?”

“I’ll get it there in half an hour, Boss, if that old mare of mine keeps on her feet. It’s powerful mean goin’ today, with so much snow.”

The boy yielded his check, saw his trunk put on the dray, and, after getting directions from the negro, trudged across Railroad Avenue and turned eastward past the row of cheap stores and tenement houses that faced the tracks. There had been a good deal of snow since Christmas and it was still piled high between sidewalk and street. Overhead a gray morning sky threatened more, and there was a nip in the air that made the boy set his bag down before he had traversed a block and slip on a pair of woollen gloves. Behind him a door opened and an appealing odour of coffee and cooking was wafted out to him. As he took up his valise again he looked wistfully through the frost-framed window of the little eating-house and mentally counted up his change. Evidently the result prohibited refreshment, for he went on, the heavy valise dragging and bumping as he walked, and at last turned the corner and struck northward. Here, after a short distance, the buildings became comfortable homes, many of them surrounded by grounds of some extent. From chimneys the gray smoke was ascending in the frosty air and now and then the tantalising vision of a breakfast table met his sight. The sidewalks hereabouts had been cleaned of snow and walking was easier, something the boy was heartily glad of since that valise was gaining in weight at every step.

It was not, he was thinking as he trudged along, a very inspiriting morning on which to arrive in a strange place. Perhaps if the sun had been shining Amesville would have seemed less gloomy and inhospitable to him, but as it was he found nothing to like about the city. On the contrary, he was convinced that it was far inferior in every way to Akron and that he would never care for it, no matter how long he stayed there. However, he forgot to take into consideration the fact that he was tired and hungry and cold, neglected to realise that almost any city, approached from its least attractive quarter and viewed in the dim light of a cloudy Winter morning, looks far from its best.

He set his valise down at a corner, rubbed his chilled fingers, and went on once more with his burden in the other hand. He was wondering now what Aunt Sarah would prove to be like. He had never seen her to remember her, although his mother had tried to recall to his recollection an occasion when Aunt Sarah had visited them in Akron. But that had been when he was only four or five years old and his memory failed him. Aunt Sarah was not a real, bona-fide aunt, for she was his mother’s half-sister. But she was the closest relative there was and when it had become necessary to break up the home in Akron it was Aunt Sarah who had written and offered to take them in. There would be practically no money left after his father’s affairs had been settled up and all the bills paid, and Mrs. Faulkner had been very glad to accept Aunt Sarah’s hospitality for her son. She herself had obtained, through the influence of a friend of her husband’s, the position of housekeeper in a hotel in Columbus. Since her son could not be with her she had decreed that he was to go to Amesville, finish his schooling there, and remain with Aunt Sarah until enough money had been saved to allow of the establishment of a new home. He had pleaded hard to be allowed to leave high school and find work in Columbus, but Mrs. Faulkner wouldn’t hear of it.

“You may not realise it now, dear,” she had said, “but an education is something you must have if you are ever to amount to anything. And there’s just one time to get it, and that’s now. If you study hard you’ll be through high school next year. You’ll be eighteen, and that’s quite young enough to start earning a living. Meanwhile Aunt Sarah will give you a good home, dear. I shall pay her a little, as much as I can afford, so you needn’t feel that you are accepting charity. You must try to be nice to her, too. She—she doesn’t always show her best side, unless she’s changed since I saw her last, but she’s as good as gold, for all her sharp tongue. And I want you to try and remember that, dear.”

He recalled the words now and tried to banish the mental picture of Aunt Sarah which he had unconsciously drawn: a tall, thin, elderly maiden lady with sharp features and a sharper tongue, dressed in a gingham gown of no particular colour and wearing a shawl over her shoulders. But the preconceived vision wouldn’t be dispelled, and consequently, when a few minutes later, the door of the little yellow house with chocolate-coloured trimmings opened to his ring and Aunt Sarah confronted him, he was not a bit surprised. For she was, with the exception of gingham dress and shawl, so much like what he had imagined that it was quite as if he had known her for a long time.

“This is Joseph?” she asked as he took off his cap on the threshold. “You’re late. I’ve been expecting you for a quarter of an hour and breakfast is stone-cold likely. Come in, please, and don’t keep the door open. Take your bag right upstairs. It’s the first room to the left. When you’ve washed, and dear knows you need it, come right down again. I dislike very much having folks late to their meals.”

During this announcement, uttered levelly in a sharp voice, she shook hands rather limply, closed the door, pushed the rug straight again with the toe of a sensible boot and smoothed the front of her black merino gown. That black gown was the only thing that didn’t fit in with his picture of her and he rather resented it as, tugging his bag behind him, he went up the narrow, squeaky staircase. That colourless gingham he had mentally attired her in would, he thought, have been less depressing than the black merino.

The room in which he found himself was small, but, in spite of the cheerless weather outside, bright and homelike. There were some surprisingly gay cretonne curtains at the two windows, the paper was blue-and-white in a neat pattern, the brass knobs of the single bed shone like globes of gold, and Joe noted with approval that the gaslight was convenient to the old-fashioned mahogany, drop-front desk. On the table at the head of the bed were three books, disputing the small surface with a candlestick and a match-safe, and while he hurriedly prepared for breakfast he stole time to examine the titles. “Every Boy’s Handy Book,” he read, “Self-Help,” “Leather Stocking Tales.” He smiled as he turned away. On the walnut bureau—it had a marble slab and an oval mirror and a lidded box at each side—was a Bible. He made a quick toilet and returned downstairs. A pleasant fragrance of coffee guided him to the dining-room. Aunt Sarah was already in place and a large black cat was asleep on a chair between the windows.

“That will be your place,” said Miss Teele, indicating a chair across the table with a nod. “Do you eat oatmeal?”

“Yes, ma’am, thanks,” replied Joe as he settled himself and opened his napkin. Aunt Sarah helped him and passed the dish. A glass percolator was bubbling at her elbow and, after serving the oatmeal, she extinguished the alcohol flame underneath and poured a generous and fragrant cup of coffee. Joe ate hungrily and finished his oatmeal in a trice. He would have liked more, but none was offered. Then an elderly, stoop-shouldered woman entered with a quick, curious glance at Joe from a pair of faded eyes and deposited a platter of bacon and eggs before her mistress.

“This is Mildred Faulkner’s boy, Amanda,” announced Miss Teele. “You may hand the coffee, please.”

Amanda nodded silently in reply to Joe’s murmured “How do you do?” and quickly departed, to return a moment later with a toast-rack. Joe had never seen toast served that way before and was viewing it interestedly when Aunt Sarah, having served him with a generous helping of bacon and a fried egg, and tasted her coffee, remarked:

“You’ll find the food here plain but wholesome, Joseph. And I guess you’ll always get enough. If you don’t I want you to tell me. I don’t hold with skimping on food. How’s your mother?”

“Quite well, thank you. She goes to Columbus today.”

Aunt Sarah sniffed. “Going to be a housekeeper at a hotel, she wrote me. A nice occupation, I must say, for a Teele!”

“There didn’t seem to be much else,” replied Joe.

“She might have come to me. I offered her a home. But she always was dreadfully set and independent. Well, I hope she don’t regret it. How was it your father didn’t leave anything when he died?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Sarah. We always thought there was plenty of money before. But there were a good many bills, and the paper hadn’t been paying very well for a year or two, and so——”

“I told your mother when she was so set on marrying John Faulkner that he’d never be able to provide for her. I’m not surprised.”

“But he did provide for my mother,” replied Joe indignantly. “We always had everything we wanted.”

“You haven’t got much now, have you? Giving your folks all they want while you’re alive and leaving them without a cent when you die isn’t exactly my idea of providing.” Aunt Sarah sniffed again. “Not that I had anything against your father, though. I always liked him. What I saw of him, that is, which wasn’t much. He just wasn’t practical. Are you like him?”

“Folks say I look like him,” said Joe coldly. He felt resentful of Aunt Sarah’s criticism.

“So you do, but I guess you’ve got more spunk than he ever had. You’ll need it. When do you propose to start in school?”

“As soon as I can. I thought I’d go and see the principal this morning.”

“The sooner the better, I guess. Idleness never gets a body anywhere. Will you have another egg?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m glad you haven’t got a finicky appetite.” She added bacon to the egg and pushed the toast-rack nearer. “Will you have another cup of coffee?” Joe would and said so. It seemed to him that he would never get enough to eat, which, considering that he hadn’t had anything since six o’clock the night before wasn’t surprising. Aunt Sarah nibbled at a piece of toast and sipped her coffee and was silent. Joe felt that he ought to attempt conversation and presently said:

“You have a very pleasant home, Aunt Sarah.”

“I’m not complaining any,” was the brief response.

A minute later he happened to look up and caught her gaze. He may have been mistaken, but it seemed to him that she was regarding his performance with knife and fork quite approvingly. When he had finished, Aunt Sarah said grace, which to Joe’s thinking was turning things around, and arose.

“I suppose you brought a trunk with you?” she questioned.

“Yes, ma’am, and it ought to be here. The expressman said he would get it around by eight.”

“Like as not it was Gus Tenney,” said Aunt Sarah. “If it was it won’t get here until afternoon, I guess. He’s the most worthless, shiftless negro in town.” But Aunt Sarah, for once, did the coloured gentleman an injustice, for even as she finished he backed his team up to the sidewalk. “You show him where to put it,” she instructed, “and tell him to be careful and not bump the walls. And don’t pay him a cent more than a quarter of a dollar, Joseph. Have you got any money?”

“Yes, ma’am, thanks.”

Aunt Sarah, who had begun to look around in a mildly distracted way for her purse, stopped and said “Hmph!” Then, “Well, don’t you give him more than a quarter, now!”

Five minutes later Joe was unpacking his belongings and whistling quite merrily. After all, things weren’t so bad, he reflected. Aunt Sarah was cross-grained beyond a doubt, but she gave a fellow plenty to eat!

“And good eats, too!” he murmured contentedly.

“Joseph Faulkner?” inquired Mr. Dennison, the high school principal.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, Faulkner.” They shook hands and Mr. Dennison pulled a chair nearer the big, broad-topped desk. “Sit down, please. You wrote me a week or so ago from Akron, I believe, and enclosed a letter from your principal, Mr. Senter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have it here, I think.” Mr. Dennison searched for a moment in the file at his elbow and drew forth the two communications pinned together. He read Mr. Senter’s letter again and nodded.

“I see,” he murmured. “Now tell me something about yourself, my boy. Your father has died recently?”

“Yes, sir, in November.”

“I’m very sorry. I think now I recall reading of his death in the paper. He was the editor of the Enterprise, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. He owned the paper, too. That is, most of it.”

“Your mother is alive, I trust?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have brothers and sisters?”

“No, sir; there’s only me.”

“I see. I rather expected your mother would call with you, Faulkner. It’s the customary thing. We rather like to meet the pupils’ parents and get in touch with them, so to speak. Possibly your mother, however, was not feeling well enough to accompany you this morning.”

“She isn’t here, sir. She’s in Columbus. You see, father didn’t leave much money and so she—she took a position in Columbus and sent me here to live with an aunt, a Miss Teele, on Brewer Street. Mother wants me to finish high school. I thought I’d ought to go to work, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Dennison sympathetically. “Most unfortunate! Well, I think your mother is quite right, my boy. You’ll be better fitted to face the—er—the responsibilities of life if you have supplied yourself with an education. Hm! Yes. Now, let me see. I gather from what your former principal writes that you have been a very steady, hard-working student. You like to study and learn, Faulkner?”

“Yes, sir. That is, I like to study some things. And, of course, I want to learn. Mr. Senter said he thought there wouldn’t be any trouble about my getting into the junior class here, sir. I’ve only missed about seven weeks.”

“I see.” Mr. Dennison thoughtfully folded the letters in his hands, observing Joe the while. What he saw prepossessed him in the boy’s favour. Joe was large for his age, sturdy without being heavy, and had the healthful colouring and clear eyes of a youth who had divided his time fairly between indoors and out. You wouldn’t have called him handsome, perhaps, for his nose wasn’t at all classic, being rather of the tip-tilted variety, and his chin was a bit too square to meet the Greek standard of beauty. Perhaps it was the chin that had suggested spunk to Aunt Sarah. Anyhow, it suggested it to Mr. Dennison. In fact, the whole face spoke of eager courage, and the gray eyes looked out with a level directness that proclaimed honesty. For the rest, he had light-brown hair, so light that one hesitated at calling it brown, but had to for want of a better description, a forehead that matched the chin in breadth and gave the face a square look, and a mouth that, no matter how serious the rest of the countenance was, seemed on the point of breaking into a smile. On the whole, summed up the principal, a healthy, honest, capable appearing boy, and one likely to be heard from.

“Yes,” said Mr. Dennison after a moment’s silence, “yes, I think the junior class is where you belong. At least, we’ll try you there. I don’t want to set you back unless it’s quite necessary. You may have to work hard for a month or so to catch up, but I think you can do it. How old are you, Faulkner?”

“Sixteen, sir, on the fourth of last August.” Other questions were asked and answered and the answers were entered on a filing card. Then:

“Can you start in tomorrow?” asked the principal.

“Yes, sir, I’d like to.”

“Very well. Then in the morning report in Room D to Mr. Whalen. School takes in at eight-thirty. Here is a list of books and materials you’ll need, many of which you doubtless have already. Any books or stationery you need can be obtained at the outer office. Books may be purchased outright or rented, as you please. That’s all, I think. I hope you’ll like us here, Faulkner. You must get acquainted with the other boys, you know, and then you’ll feel more at home. Come and see me in a day or two and tell me how you are getting on. And if there’s anything you want to know or if there’s any help you need don’t hesitate to apply to Mr. Jonson, my assistant, or to me.” Mr. Dennison shook hands again and Joe, armed with the printed list of books and materials, expressed his thanks and passed out into the corridor. A gong had sounded a moment before and the stairways and halls were thronged with students. No one, however, paid any attention to Joe and he left the big building and walked across the town to Main Street and turned southward, his eyes busy as he went.

The sky was still gray and Main Street was ankle-deep in yellow-brown slush, and Amesville did not, perhaps, look its best even yet. But the buildings, if not so fine as those of Akron, were solid and substantial for the most part, and the stores presented enticing windows and leavened the grayness with colour and brightness. It seemed, he decided, a busy, bustling little city—he had already ascertained that it boasted a population of twenty-five thousand and the honor of being the county seat—and it didn’t require any great effort of imagination to fancy himself back in Akron.

Joe not only observed but he studied, and for a reason. To let you into a secret which he had so far confided to no one, Joe had no intention of allowing his mother to pay Aunt Sarah for his board and lodging for very long. He meant to find some sort of work that he could perform before and after school hours. What it was to be he did not yet know, although there was one job he expected to be able to secure if nothing more promising offered. He was fairly certain, although his mother had not taken him into her confidence to that extent, that hotel housekeepers did not receive munificent wages, and he realised that his mother, used to having practically every comfort money could buy, would find it hard enough to get on without having to send a part of her monthly salary to Aunt Sarah.

The job that he felt pretty certain of obtaining was that of delivering newspapers. Joe was well enough acquainted with the newspaper business to know that it was always difficult for circulation managers to find boys enough to keep the routes covered. He had had some experience of the kind, for when he was in grammar school he had delivered the Enterprise all one Summer and part of a Winter, until, in fact, a chronic condition of wet feet caused his mother to interfere. His father had not at any time approved of the proceeding, for Mr. Faulkner had been a man of position in Akron and it had seemed to him that in carrying a newspaper route Joe was performing labor beneath him and, perhaps, casting aspersions on the financial and social standing of Mr. John Faulkner. Joe had had to beg long for permission and his father had agreed with ill-grace. The fun had soon worn off, but Joe had kept on with the work long after his chum, who had embarked in the enterprise with him, had given up. It didn’t bring in much money, and Joe didn’t need what it did bring, since his father was lavishly generous in the matter of pocket-money. It was principally the fact that his father had predicted that he would soon tire of it that kept him doggedly at it when the cold weather came. Getting up before light and tramping through snow and slush to toss twisted-up papers into doorways soon became the veriest drudgery to the fourteen-year-old boy, and only pride prevented him from crying quits. When, finally, wet boots and continual sniffling caused his mother to put her foot down Joe was secretly very, very glad!

But delivering newspapers wasn’t the work he wanted now, unless he could find none other, and, as he went down Main Street just before noon, his eyes and mind were busy with possibilities. To find a position as a clerk was out of the question, since he wouldn’t be able to work during the busiest hours. Some labor that he might perform after school in the afternoon and during the evening was what he hoped to find. And so, as he passed a store or an office, he considered its possibilities. He paused for several minutes in front of one of the big windows of Miller and Tappen’s Department Store, but finally went on with a shake of his head. If it had been before instead of after the holidays he might have found employment there as an extra hand in the wrapping or shipping department, but now they would more likely be turning help away than taking it on. A drug store on the corner engaged his attention next, and then a brilliantly red hardware store across the street, a hardware store that evidently did a large business in athletic goods if one was to judge by the attractive display in one broad window. But Joe couldn’t think of any position in one or the other that he could apply for. Further along, a handsome new twelve-story structure was nearing completion, and he stopped awhile to watch operations. It was the only “skyscraper” in sight and consequently stuck up above the surrounding five- and six-story edifices like, to use Joe’s metaphor, a sore thumb! It was a fine-looking building, though, and he found himself feeling a civic pride in it, quite as though he was already a settled citizen of the town. Well, for that matter, he told himself, he guessed Amesville wasn’t such a bad place, after all, and if only he could find a job that would bring him in enough to pay Aunt Sarah for board and lodging——

But at that moment the noon whistle blew, a bell struck twelve somewhere and Joe turned back toward Brewer Street. Aunt Sarah had enjoined him to be back before half-past twelve, which was dinner time, and he recalled her assertion that she disliked having folks tardy at meals. So his search for employment must wait until later.

His walking had made him hungry again and he viewed veal chops smothered with tomato sauce and the riced potatoes piled high in the blue dish and the lima beans beside it with vast approval. There was a generous plate of graham bread, too, and a pyramid of grape jelly that swayed every time Amanda crossed the floor. He satisfied Aunt Sarah’s curiosity as to the interview with the high school principal while satisfying his own appetite. Aunt Sarah said “Hmph!” and that she’d heard tell Mr. Dennison was a very competent principal. Thereupon she went into the past history of the Amesville High School and its heads, and Joe, diligently addressing himself to the viands, told himself that his Aunt Sarah seemed astonishingly well informed on the subject. Later he discovered that Aunt Sarah was well informed on most subjects and that when it came to town news she was better than a paper!

“I had Amanda bake an apple pudding,” she informed him presently, when his appetite began to languish. “I guess boys usually like something sweet to top off with. Do you eat apple pudding?”

“Yes, Aunt. Most any kind of pudding. But don’t you—don’t you go to any trouble about me, please. I—I can eat whatever there is. I’ve got a fine old appetite.”

“Hmph! Well, I guess you won’t go hungry here. Not that I intend to have things much different from usual, though. I don’t hold with humouring folks’ notions about food. Food is food, I say, so long’s it’s nourishing and decently cooked. Your mother, though, was always a great one for strange, outlandish dishes and I suppose you’ll miss ’em. Well, all I can say is plain food’s what I was brought up on and I’ve never seen anyone hurt none by eatin’ it. I’ve noticed that folks who like messed-up dishes generally have dyspepsia and are always doctoring themselves. Amanda, bring in the pudding.”

Aunt Sarah seemed slightly surprised when, the apple pudding partaken of, Joe announced that he thought he’d go and have a look around town. “Well,” she said, “you’re old enough to look after yourself, I suppose, but for goodness’ sake, don’t go and get run over or anything! Main Street’s getting to be something awful, what with these automobiles and all. Seems like a body just has to take his life in his hands when he goes there nowadays. If those awful things don’t run you down they scare you to death, and if they can’t do any worse to you they spatter you with mud. Gracious sakes, I haven’t dared shop on the other side of Main Street for ’most a year!”

Joe didn’t confide to her his real errand, just why he didn’t exactly know. Perhaps he had a dim notion that Aunt Sarah wouldn’t approve of his engaging in work that might keep him away from home at strange hours of the day or night. She watched his departure doubtfully from the front door and when he was almost to the corner of the next street called after him to go to Rice and Perry’s and get himself a pair of overshoes. “Tell Mr. Perry they’re to be charged to me, and see that he gives them to you big enough. If you don’t watch him he’ll fit you too snug and then they’ll wear out right away!”

Joe didn’t obey instructions, however. Somehow he wasn’t yet ready to become indebted to Aunt Sarah, and, besides, he didn’t need overshoes to get around today. His boots were heavy-soled and as nearly waterproof as any “guaranteed waterproof” boots ever are. During the afternoon he made several inquiries for work. A photographer declined his offer to do errands after three o’clock in the afternoon, a haberdasher failed to discern the benefits to accrue—to him—from giving employment to the applicant, and four other merchants of different trades answered to similar effect. Just before dusk Joe sought the office of the Amesville Recorder.

The Recorder was an evening paper and came off the press at half-past three, and for that reason Joe had made it first choice over its morning rival, the Gazette, which was delivered in the early morning. Fortunately, he found the circulation manager still on duty when he reached the office, and although that gentleman, who wore a nervous, harassed look, scowled upon him fiercely at first, the scowl gradually faded as Joe stated his mission. Unknown to him, Joe had timed his application extremely well, since one of the carriers had that very afternoon been given his dismissal, and it didn’t take more than four minutes to secure what he was after. The route was not a long one and paid less than Joe wished it did, but the manager promised to give him something better if he proved satisfactory and the opportunity occurred. Joe was supplied with a list of subscribers on Route 6, told to be on hand promptly next afternoon at three-thirty, and took himself away well satisfied. The work would bring him only three dollars a week, which was much less than he believed himself capable of earning, but the route would take but two hours from the time he left the newspaper office and he would be through well before supper time. Besides, Joe had no intention of delivering papers very long. Sooner or later, he believed, a better chance would offer. Until then, though, Route 6, with its resultant three dollars a week, would be a heap better than nothing.

He told Aunt Sarah about it at the supper table and Aunt Sarah, instead of expressing disapproval, appeared much pleased. Only, she insisted, the work mustn’t be allowed to interfere with his studies. Joe assured her that it wouldn’t, since he would have his evenings free. After supper he went upstairs, opened the mahogany desk and wrote a long letter to his mother. He tried to make it sound very brave and cheerful, but I don’t think Mrs. Faulkner had much difficulty in reading between the lines and reaching the conclusion that Joe was a little bit homesick and lonely and that he missed her a lot. He told about his interview with Mr. Dennison and about the employment he had secured.

“It pays only three dollars,” he wrote, “but it won’t take more than an hour and a half or two hours and I won’t have to work on Sunday because the Recorder doesn’t have any Sunday edition. I’m going to pay two and a half of it to Aunt Sarah every week and so you won’t have to send her very much, will you? I’d give it all to her, but I guess I’d better keep a half-dollar out for pocket-money. Then you won’t have to send me any money. After a while I’m going to get something to do that will pay me more and maybe then you won’t have to send Aunt Sarah a cent. Aunt Sarah looks like she would bite my head off if I brought any dirt into the house on my shoes and she talks mighty crusty, but I guess she’s a pretty good sort after all. She had Amanda cook me a bully apple pudding for dinner today. I’m pretty sure she did it on my account, because she didn’t touch it herself. Amanda is a funny old woman who does the cooking and so on. She’s about sixty, I guess, and hasn’t but three or four teeth and sort of mumbles when she talks. When I say anything to her she looks scared and beats it.

“Mr. Dennison gave me a list of the books I have to have and I’ve got them all but one. I can rent that and it won’t cost much. I’ve still got nearly four dollars of what you gave me and you don’t need to send me any more. I guess I’m going to like this place very much when I get used to it. Aunt Sarah wanted me to get a pair of overshoes and charge them to her, but I didn’t like to, and besides my boots are all right without overshoes. Maybe I’ll get a new pair of rubbers some time. The ones I brought with me are sort of leaky. But I won’t need any other things like clothes or shoes or anything for almost a year, I guess, so you’re not to worry about me.”

He spent all of an hour over that letter and used four sheets of Aunt Sarah’s old-fashioned blue-ruled paper, and when it was finished and ready for the mail his watch told him that the time was half-past nine. He was opening his door to go downstairs and say good-night to Aunt Sarah when he heard her coming up.

“I hope you’ll have enough covers,” she said as she came to the doorway. “If you haven’t you’ll find another comfortable on the closet shelf. Breakfast’s at seven, but if you’re very sleepy tomorrow I guess it won’t matter much if you don’t come down right on time. Amanda can keep something hot for you. ’Twon’t hurt her a bit. I suppose you’ll be wanting a bath every morning, and I haven’t any objection to your having it, only remember the water’s metered and don’t let the plug slip out. It’s awful the way they charge for water nowadays! First thing we know they’ll be putting the air on a meter, too, just as likely as not! Well, I hope you sleep well and get rested, Joseph. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Aunt Sarah.” Joe hadn’t had any intention of doing what he did then, but writing to his mother had left him a little bit lonesome, and—well, acting on the impulse of the moment, he kissed Aunt Sarah on the cheek! I fancy he was almost if not quite as surprised as Aunt Sarah when he had done it. That Aunt Sarah was surprised was very evident. Indeed, something very like consternation was expressed on her countenance.

“Hmph!” she snorted. “Hmph! Well, I declare!”

Joe, embarrassed himself, drew back over the threshold, smiling uncertainly. Aunt Sarah, at a loss for further words, stared a moment, said “Hmph!” again in more thoughtful accents and turned away. But when she had gone a few steps she paused. “I told Amanda to boil you a couple of eggs for breakfast,” she announced, “but maybe you don’t care for eggs. Some folks don’t.”

“Indeed, I do. Thanks.”

“Well, all right, then. I don’t hold with humouring folks with finicky appetites, but if there’s anything you’d rather have than the eggs——”

“There isn’t, really. The eggs will be fine!”

“Humph! Good-night.”

Aunt Sarah’s door closed softly down the hall and Joe smiled as he shut his own.

“I don’t believe she minded it at all,” he murmured. “I guess—I guess she’s never had very many kisses!”

His first day of school passed without special incident. Several fellows spoke to him at recess and satisfied their curiosity about the newcomer, but none of them appealed greatly to Joe and he made no effort to pursue the acquaintances. At half-past three he was on hand at the Recorder office, received his bundle of papers, slung them at his side by a strap which he had bought on the way from school, and started out. His route began nearly a mile from the newspaper building and it would have saved time if he had taken a car on Main Street. But to do that every day would cost him thirty cents, and thirty cents taken from three dollars leaves quite a hole! So he tramped the distance instead. He had already studied his route on a map in a copy of the city directory and so had little difficulty. He did, however, manage to leave out a block and had to