The Brother of a Hero

“Greenridge! Greenridge! Have your tickets ready, please!”

There was a hoarse blast from the whistle and the steamer sidled in toward the wharf. Rodney Merrill, his brand new suitcase tightly clutched in his left hand and his ticket firmly held in his right, followed the dozen or so passengers who were crowding toward where three deck hands waited to push over the gangplank. As the Henry Hudson edged up to the landing the main street of the little town came suddenly into view, leading straight up the hill at a discouraging angle until lost to sight behind the overhanging branches of great trees. Rodney thought he had never seen so many trees before. They were everywhere――elms, maples, beeches and oaks――hiding the houses spread up the side of the ridge so that only here and there was visible a gray roof or a white wall or a red chimney top. Even here by the river edge the trees seemed to be trying to dispute the margin with the wharves and buildings. Where Rodney had come from folks first built houses and then planted trees, afterwards tending them as carefully as though they were rare flowers. Here, it seemed, folks had tucked their houses away in a veritable forest. He mentally compared the leaf-roofed street before him with Capitol Avenue, back in Orleans, Nebraska. Capitol Avenue was lined with trees, too, but the trees were as yet barely twelve feet high and cast about as much shade as would a lady’s parasol.

At the left of the wharf was a ferry slip, with a little brown shed beside it bearing the legend, GREENRIDGE AND MILON FERRY COMPANY. A handful of people waited there under the shelter and watched the arrival of the river steamer. The paddles thrashed, the steamer shivered and bumped, the gangplank thudded to the wharf, and the disembarking passengers moved forward. Rodney followed, gave up his ticket, and found himself on land. He yielded his bag and trunk check to a hackman, asked directions, and with a farewell glance at the Henry Hudson gained the shadiest side of the ascending street.

It was still only a little after two o’clock and he had all the afternoon before him. Somewhere at the top of the hill was Maple Hill Academy, for which he was bound. But, as he would undoubtedly see quite enough of that institution during the next nine months, he was in no hurry to reach it. Rodney’s father had accompanied the boy to New York and had fully intended coming to Greenridge-on-Hudson with him, but, just as they had sat down to dinner in the hotel the evening before, an imperative telegram had reached him, and this morning Rodney had boarded a Hudson River steamboat and Mr. Merrill a Chicago train. Naturally Rodney had been disappointed, but he was quite used to his father’s erratic flights from home――it was the penalty of having a father who was an important factor in a big railway system――and he had made the best of it. There had been so much to see from the moment the steamer had left its dock in the North River until it had bumped against the big piles at Greenridge that Rodney had forgotten to be lonesome. Besides, to a boy of fifteen, even though he has been brought up to be self-reliant and is fairly accustomed to looking out for himself, there is something inspiriting in journeying alone, in being thrown on his own resources. He experienced a fine feeling of independence as he loitered up the street, and perhaps was guilty of a suggestion of swagger, for which I think he may be excused.

The street――River Street was the name of it, as he soon discovered――was lined with funny, half-asleep little shops. There was nothing smart about them. Their windows looked as though they were seldom washed and the goods displayed therein were often dusty and fly-specked. And then the names over the doors amused him; as “Liverwell and Nagg, Fine Groceries and Provisions,” “Huckens and Soper, Hardware,” “Jernigen’s Pharmacy, New York Prices,” “Sauerwien’s Home Bakery” and “Fogg and Frost, Stationery, Books, Periodicals, Post Cards, Lending Library and Candy.” Hands in pockets, he looked in the windows, peered up shady side streets at the half-hidden doorways and porches of comfortable, old-fashioned houses and, in short, loafed enjoyably, finding all sorts of things to interest him in this queer, hundred-year-old-town.

Presently, when he had progressed three or four blocks up the hill, he came to an uncovered bridge spanning the railroad. Below on one side, reached by a flight of steps, was a small station. He paused there above long enough to determine in which direction New York City lay, and then, as no trains came along to offer entertainment, he went on again, up and up under the wide trees. It was rather hard climbing and the day was none too cool now that he had left the river behind. And so at the next corner he entered a drug store and sank onto a stool in front of the soda fountain. While he waited for someone to appear from the dim mysteries behind the partition at the back, he amused himself by deciphering the sign on the window. YCAMRAHP S’ELTTILOOD was about the way it appeared from inside. When he had puzzled it out he glanced around the empty store and chuckled. It was, he thought, well named.

“Chocolate ice-cream soda, please,” he requested presently, when a youth with sandy hair strolled into sight wiping his hands on a soiled white apron. “Lots of chocolate, please,” he added.

The clerk glanced doubtfully at the faucet inscribed “Choc.,” tried it and shook his head. “All out of chocolate just now,” he announced, looking dreamily across the street. “I’m going to make some more this afternoon. Something else do?”

“Strawberry,” said Rodney.

This time the clerk had better luck. While Rodney consumed the concoction, the clerk leaned wearily against the fountain and watched the street. At last, “School?” he asked.

“What?”

“You an Academy boy?”

“Not yet.” Rodney glanced at the round faced clock in the center of the partition. “Not till five o’clock probably.”

“Just come, eh?” continued the clerk with a slight show of interest. “Well, it’s a pretty good school, I guess. ’Bout as good as any in New York State, they say.”

“Is it?” Rodney didn’t seem much impressed. “If I’d had my way I’d have gone to a military academy back in Michigan. But my brother used to go here and he made dad send me, too. I suppose it will do.”

“Where’d you come from?” asked the other.

“Orleans, Nebraska. Ever been out there?”

“N-no. Nebraska’s quite a ways, ain’t it? Out――out near Illinois, ain’t it? Or Texas?”

“Out that way,” replied Rodney dryly. “Sort of between those places and Oregon. It’s the finest state in the Union.”

“That so?” The drug clerk grinned. “Guess you ain’t lived in the east much, have you?”

“No, not lived, but I’ve been in about every state except Maine and Vermont and West Virginia. And Nebraska’s got them all thrown and hog-tied.”

“You must have travelled some! Ever been in Utah?”

“Several times,” answered Rodney, scraping the last particle of ice cream from his glass with a sigh of regret.

“Is that so? I don’t suppose you ever ran across a fellow named Stenstream out there, did you?”

“I don’t think so. What town is he in?”

“Town? I don’t know. One of those Mormon towns, I think. He’s a sort of cousin of mine, Pringle is.”

“Did he come from here?” asked Rodney as he drained the last drop in his glass.

“Yes, he used to work for Huckins, down the street. Always was a sort of adventurous chap, though. Nobody wasn’t surprised much when he up and lit out for Utah.”

“Utah ought to be a fine place for a fellow with a name like that,” said Rodney gravely. “What did you say it was?”

“His name? Pringle Stenstream.”

“My, this is sure one fine place for names, isn’t it?” laughed the boy.

The clerk blinked as he washed the glass. “Names? How do you mean? What’s the matter with the names?”

“Oh, they’re all right, but sort of――of unusual.”

“Stenstream ain’t unusual around here,” responded the clerk a trifle resentfully. “There’s stacks of ’em in New York State. It’s as common as――as my own name.”

“What’s that?” asked Rodney.

“Doolittle,” was the calm reply.

“Oh, is this your store?”

“Nope, it’s my uncle’s. I work for him. Gosh!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Rodney, following the clerk’s gaze through the window.

“There’s that Watson feller coming, and he always wants chocolate and I haven’t got any.”