He scrambled up, stood looking at Kirk with a twitching lip, then gave
a great gulp, and resumed his trotting. The whole exhibition of
indomitable heroism was over in half a minute, and he did not even
bother to wait for applause.
The effect of the incident on Kirk was magical. He was in the position
of an earnest worshipper who, tortured with doubts, has prayed for a
sign. This was a revelation. A million anti-Indian statements, however
resolute, were nothing to this.
This was the real thing. Before his eyes this super-child of his had
fallen in a manner which might quite reasonably have led to tears;
which would, Kirk felt sure, have produced bellows of anguish from
every other child in America. And what had happened? Not a moan. No,
sir, not one solitary cry. Just a gulp which you had to strain your
ears to hear, and which, at that, might have been a mere taking-in of
breath such as every athlete must do, and all was over.
This child of his was the real thing. It had been proved beyond
possibility of criticism.
There are moments when a man on parole forgets his promise. All thought
of rules and prohibitions went from Kirk. He rose from his seat,
grabbed his son with both hands, and hugged him. We cannot even begin
to estimate the number of bacilli which must have rushed, whooping with
joy, on to the unfortunate child. Under a microscope it would probably
have looked like an Old Home Week. And Kirk did not care. He simply
kept on hugging. That was the sort of man he was, thoroughly heartless.
"Bill, you're great!" he cried.
Bill had been an amazed party to the incident. Nothing of this kind had
happened to him for so long that he had forgotten there were children
to whom this sort of thing did happen. Then he recollected a similar
encounter with a bearded man down in the hall when he came in one
morning from his ride in the automobile. A moment later he had
connected his facts.
This man who had no beard was the same man as the man who had a beard,
and this behaviour was a personal eccentricity of his. The thought
crossed his mind that Aunty Lora would not approve of this.
And then, surprisingly, there came the thought that he did not care
whether Aunty Lora approved or not. He liked it, and that was
enough for him.
The seeds of revolt had been sown in the bosom of William Bannister.
It happened that Ruth, returning from her luncheon-party, looked in at
the nursery on her way upstairs. She was confronted with the spectacle
of Bill seated on Kirk's lap, his face against Kirk's shoulder. Kirk,
though he had stopped speaking as the door opened, appeared to be in
the middle of a story, for Bill, after a brief glance at the newcomer,
asked: "What happened then?"
"Kirk, really!" said Ruth.
Kirk did not appear in the least ashamed of himself.
"Ruth, this kid is the most amazing kid. Do you know what happened just
now? He was running along and he tripped and came down flat. And he
didn't even think of crying. He just picked himself up, and......"
"That was very brave of you, Billy. But, seriously, Kirk, you shouldn't
hug him like that. Think what Aunt Lora would say!"
"Aunt Lora be......Bother Aunt Lora!"
"Well, I won't give you away. If she heard, she would write a book
about it. And she was just starting to come up when I was downstairs.
We came in together. You had better fly while there's time."
It was sound advice, and Kirk took it.
It was not till some time later, going over the incident again in his
mind, he realized how very lightly Ruth had treated what, if she really
adhered to Mrs. Porter's views on hygiene, should have been to her a
dreadful discovery. The reflection was pleasant to him for a moment; it
seemed to draw Ruth and himself closer together; then he saw the
reverse side of it.
If Ruth did not really believe in this absurd hygienic nonsense, why
had she permitted it to be practised upon the boy? There was only one
answer, and it was the one which Kirk had already guessed at. She did
it because it gave her more freedom, because it bored her to look after
the child herself, because she was not the same Ruth he had left at the
studio when he started with Hank Jardine for Colombia.
Chapter VI The Outcasts
Three months of his new life had gone by before Kirk awoke from the
stupor which had gripped him as the result of the general upheaval of
his world. Ever since his return from Colombia he had honestly been
intending to resume his painting, and, attacking it this time in a
business-like way, to try to mould himself into the semblance of an
efficient artist.
His mind had been full of fine resolutions. He would engage a good
teacher, some competent artist whom fortune had not treated well and
who would be glad of the job, Washington Square and its neighbourhood
were full of them, and settle down grimly, working regular hours, to
recover lost ground.
But the rush of life, as lived on the upper avenue, had swept him away.
He had been carried along on the rapids of dinners, parties, dances,
theatres, luncheons, and the rest, and his great resolve had gone
bobbing away from him on the current.
He had recovered it now and climbed painfully ashore, feeling bruised
and exhausted, but determined.
* * * * *
Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days of
Kirk's bachelorhood had been an artist, one might almost say an
ex-artist, named Robert Dwight Penway. An over-fondness for rye whisky
at the Brevoort cafe had handicapped Robert as an active force in the
world of New York art. As a practical worker he was not greatly
esteemed, least of all by the editors of magazines, who had paid
advance cheques to him for work which, when delivered at all, was
delivered too late for publication. These, once bitten, were now twice
shy of Mr. Penway. They did not deny his great talents, which were,
indeed, indisputable; but they were fixed in their determination not to
make use of them.
Fate could have provided no more suitable ally for Kirk. It was
universally admitted around Washington Square and, grudgingly, down-town
that in the matter of theory Mr. Penway excelled. He could teach to
perfection what he was too erratic to practise.
Robert Dwight Penway, run to earth one sultry evening in the Brevoort,
welcomed Kirk as a brother, as a rich brother. Even when his first
impression, that he was to have the run of the house on Fifth Avenue
and mix freely with touchable multi-millionaires, had been corrected,
his altitude was still brotherly. He parted from Kirk with many solemn
promises to present himself at the studio daily and teach him enough
art to put him clear at the top of the profession. "Way above all
these other dubs," asserted Mr. Penway.
Robert Dwight Penway's attitude toward his contemporaries in art bore a
striking resemblance to Steve's estimate of his successors in the
middle-weight department of the American prize-ring.
Surprisingly to those who knew him, Mr. Penway was as good as his word.
Certainly Kirk's terms had been extremely generous; but he had thrown
away many a contract of equal value in his palmy days. Possibly his
activity was due to his liking for Kirk; or it may have been that the
prospect of sitting by with a cigar while somebody else worked, with
nothing to do all day except offer criticism, and advice, appealed to