Billy To-morrow's Chums

The night was dark, the darkest he ever knew, Sydney Bremmer thought as he went his rounds to see if the place was in order. When first he came to live with Mrs. Schmitz he had to take a lantern; but now he was so accustomed to the narrow, soft lanes that led up and down the nursery between close rows of shrubs and flowers, and to the passages in the greenhouses, that he could “feel his way,” as he could in the same way tell when the temperature was right.

As for the little furnace, its own cheerful light, when he opened the doors to fill the fire box and bank the fire, not only showed the way to the coal bin, but sent long streamers of genial light into the black night, and flooded the boy’s face with a weird color that made him look like a fire spirit.

Once between noises he thought he heard something under one of the plant shelves, and called to see if it was the dog, Blitzen. No dog appeared, and everything seemed to be in place. Thinking he had been mistaken, Sydney closed the furnace, fastened the greenhouse door, and ran through the nursery gate to the porch, where he put out the milk bottles and patted Blitzen, saying good night in the silent, boyish fashion that the dog well understood.

As he entered the kitchen, very quietly he thought, a woman’s voice called from above, “That you, Seedney? How late you sit up.”

“Yes. Had trouble with my geometry. Everything’s all right.”

“So? Good! Sleep forty miles the hour till breakfast. I’ll call you. Think of nothing but rest. Good night.”

Sydney returned her good night, mounted the wide stairs, and passed through the long hall, dark as Erebus but for a faint gleam under a door, the one leading to Mrs. Schmitz’s room. Always her tiny night light sent its friendly beacon to Sydney through the window as he came round the house from his rounds in the nursery.

His room was warm from the comfortable stove; and light from the student lamp lent an air of refinement to the chamber not in keeping with the cheap furnishings.

But Sydney did not mind the cheapness of things. The pine bureau and bedstead painted gaudily, the table with pitcher and bowl that served for a lavatory, the cheap chairs and cotton carpet, chromos on the wall and nails in the closet--these makeshifts were luxury to the lad who had known continuous hardship in his newsboy days after the great fire in his native city, San Francisco.

This warm nest was a haven of peace and comfort. Towels and sheets were soft and clean, the blankets fleecy and warm, and the pillows the very home of sleep for a head that had long pillowed on a roll of papers.

And on those nails in the tiny closet was the luxury of a best and a second best suit; on the table books and papers, with permission to study or read as late as he pleased. When he entered his den, set the stove roaring, and settled at ease in his old cane “rocker,” a peace and satisfaction filled him that could well be the envy of the richest millionaire living.

This night, chilled from his errand in the cold, he looked around with renewed appreciation. He wound his nickel clock and turned off the alarm. At first he had disregarded Mrs. Schmitz’s injunction to sleep on Sunday morning, believing it his duty to be on hand for the early work that knows no holiday. But she was a woman of authority, and Sydney had long ago found it as necessary to obey her orders for his comfort as for those concerning his work. As he became better acquainted with the lonely, eccentric woman, he was more than willing to heed her wishes.

One of these was that he should sleep with windows wide open. To-night the inrush of cold air drenched from the salt Sound took the sleep from his eyes and sent the quick blood to his brain; and with it a hundred ideas that came tumbling over one another for notice.

The most important matter was a growing puzzle to him: why the girls at school would not treat Ida Jones, who worked for her board, as well as the boys treated him, who worked for his board.

Of course she was a junior; yet when he had been a junior he had found no such battle to fight. Suddenly he remembered his friends, Reginald Steele, Hec Price, “Sis” Jones, and Billy To-morrow--good old Billy, who had always been his friend since the day on the coast steamer when Billy interceded for the stowaway, Sydney. A word from any of these was as good as a proclamation from the whole of an under class.

Yet for Ida it was not the same; she had something quite different from a boy’s troubles to fight, wholly feminine and mysterious.

A bright idea came--he would ask Bess Carter about it; she was sure to set “something doing” for Ida; and if she did the other girls would promptly fall in line.

But how could he accomplish it? To speak to a girl, even bluff, common-sense Bess, had come to be a pain during the past year. He could not understand it; hated himself for it, and spent long silent hours when he should have slept, composing brilliant dialogues between himself and some girl, only to slink by the first time he met her. Even a word from lonely Ida, whom accident had thrown in his way, set him in a panic.

How long he lay living over his vivid school life, building youth’s air castles, he did not know. He thought he had not slept, yet started suddenly at the sound of soft footsteps at the other end of the hall, and quickly rose and looked out of his door.

Mrs. Schmitz with a lighted taper was standing at the head of the stairs, listening. Her hair hung in a long braid, and the straight lines of her heavy kimono disguised her large figure and gave her a weird stateliness that made Sydney think of some serpent-bound goddess from old mythology.

He slid into his slippers, pulled around him the spread from the bed, caught up the poker from under the stove, and hurried to her.

“What is it,” he whispered, “a burglar?”

“Nothing, I guess. What you up for? I catch him mine self.”

Both listened intently. The stillness lasted so long that Sydney thought her mistaken, when a sliding sound came from below.

“You stay here,” he whispered; “I’ll go down.”

“No, you don’t! I won’t have you killed all alone. I come too.”

“Blow out the light then. We must see him first,” Sydney ordered. “Got any matches?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Silently they crept down the stairs.

On the stairs Sydney planned. “You stand at one side of the kitchen door and when I call, light the candle so I can see.”

“But he may catch you first, hurt----”

“I know the kitchen and he doesn’t. Do as I say, and we’ll get him.”

The house was large and two closed doors were between them and the burglar. Sydney was wondering if he could open them quietly, when Mrs. Schmitz stepped in front of him and noiselessly threw open one of them while he was thinking about it. From under the pantry door came a thin gleam of light.

“He thinks to find silver. He iss fooled.”

Sydney could hear the laugh in her words although they were whispered. “Stay here,” he ordered, and before she knew his intention, he had turned the key in the pantry door, and was hurrying out of the kitchen to barricade the pantry window from the outside.

But she had come to the end of obedience. She flew after him, heedless of noise, caught and held him back, saying excitedly, “Not for anything shall you go out there. Mebbe more come.”

From pure astonishment rather than obedience he paused an instant, when the light vanished from under the door, and some one ran into the dark room.

Both rushed after him, laid hold of him, and dragged him to the floor.

“Go away! He may have a gun. I’ve got him fast,” Sydney cried.

“Ant if he has a gun we will take it away,” the woman answered pluckily, still keeping her weight on the prostrate figure. “You hunt for it, Seedney.”