OU’VE been kept still so long, Billy Bradford,” said Mr. Prescott at breakfast the next Tuesday morning, “that it seems to me it would do you good to move around a little. Think so yourself?”
“Seems that way to me,” answered Billy.
“Last night,” said Mr. Prescott, “I called up that yellow-haired doctor of yours——”
“Dr. Crandon,” interrupted Billy, “is a friend of mine. His hair is only light brown.”
“Well then, begging your pardon, Dr. Crandon says he thinks, now that the weather is cooler, a motor trip would do you good.
“When I asked him whether he would like to go, he said that he would, and that he could start by Thursday. With one on the front seat with Joseph, there’s a seat to spare. I’ve been wondering——”
Billy’s eyes were so full of wishing that Mr. Prescott asked:
“Who is it, Billy?”
“Of course—I don’t suppose—I should like——” said Billy floundering around, because he wasn’t quite sure how Mr. Prescott would feel about inviting Uncle John.
“You needn’t,” said Mr. Prescott, “go through the formality of telling me. There’s only one person in the world on your mind, Billy Bradford, when your eyes look like that.
“He’s the one I want myself, so you needn’t think you’ve got ahead of me there. The only question is, how shall we manage it? Shall we ask him, or shall we run away with him?”
“Run away with him,” said Billy, half in surprise and half in assent.
“Suppose,” said Mr. Prescott, “that you go out into the garden this morning, and stay there till you’ve figured that out.”
Then, just as though he were giving an order to one of his men, he added, as he rose from the table:
“You may report to me at noon.”
Before the morning was over, Billy had decided that figuring things out was very much harder than going on errands that other people had planned.
He sat in the summer house till he was tired. Then he walked around all the paths. But settle it he would, for Uncle John must never, never lose a chance like that.
Settle it he did, and made his report:
“We could tell him, the night before, that there was something special that I wanted to ask him, and that he could come here at nine o’clock and take his time about getting back to work——”
“That,” interrupted Mr. Prescott, “will hit the case exactly. I’ll see that he takes his time about getting back.”
“And,” continued Billy, “I could go to see Aunt Mary this afternoon and tell her about it, and get my bank book——”
“Your what?” demanded Mr. Prescott.
“My bank book. You see Uncle John’s blue serge suit will be all right, but he’ll need a cap. Aunt Mary has to plan for things like that, so I want my bank book.”
“I’ve been thinking about motor clothes,” said Mr. Prescott. “I’ll look in that closet at the office. There are some extra things there. I can put some things of mine in the trunk. I wouldn’t bother, just now, to draw any money. Know anything about the size of his hat?”
“Yes,” answered Billy, “it’s only a size smaller than yours. You remember that I looked in yours one day.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Prescott, “I believe that looking at the size of hats is one of your fads.”
“My Uncle John,” said Billy, “isn’t so very tall, but he has quite a large head.”
Billy tried to say it offhand, but his pride showed, all the way through.
“Your Uncle John,” said Mr. Prescott, paying very close attention to the chop that he was eating, “is both an unusual man, and an unusually good-looking man.”
Perhaps there were two people at that table who could make offhand remarks!
“The next thing,” said Mr. Prescott, leaning back in his chair, “is what is to become of your Aunt Mary while your Uncle John is taking his time to return.”
“I wisht she could go up in the country,” said Billy.
“How would it do for you to find out this afternoon where she would like to go? Then we could talk it over to-night.”
So, for the first time since his accident, Billy went back home. It seemed to him that the auto had never run so slowly.
Aunt Mary was very much surprised. She asked him, right off, whether he had come home to stay.
“Not yet,” answered Billy.
After he had been into all the rooms, Billy said:
“Aunt Mary, won’t you come out to sit on the steps? I want to talk to you.”
How good it did seem to be sitting on those steps!
They talked and talked, and Aunt Mary grew very much excited over the trip.
“It’ll do him a world of good!” she said. “You don’t know how we’ve both worried about you, Billy.”
While she was talking, Billy was watching her; he was trying to decide where her smile left off.
When she said she could manage the part about Uncle John, Billy said:
“Are you sure your face won’t give it away?”
“Do I look as glad as that?” she asked, putting her hand up to her face. “No,” she went on, “he’ll think it’s because you have been home.”
Billy looked around. The potatoes by the fence had been dug, and Uncle John had smoothed the ground all down again. He wouldn’t have been John Bradford if he hadn’t done that.
“Home’s the best place, isn’t it, Aunt Mary?” said Billy, with a little sigh of happiness.
Then he remembered that he must manage Aunt Mary, too. He must try to get around it so that she wouldn’t suspect anything. When he thought of the right way, it seemed very simple.
“Aunt Mary,” he said, “if you had an automobile, where do you think you would go first?”
That surely ought to throw her off the track, for she could never expect to have an automobile.
It surely did throw her off the track.
“Billy,” she said, “that’s a queer thing to ask me.”
Then she said soberly:
“Don’t you know, Billy, there’s only one place in the world where I should want to go first?”
“Up in the country,” said Billy, growing sober, too, “where—where you got me?”
Aunt Mary simply bowed her head.
Wednesday afternoon Mr. Prescott dictated ever so many letters to Miss King. The last was one to Mrs. John Bradford in which Mr. Prescott begged that Mrs. Bradford would be so kind as to make use of the enclosed, so that he might be relieved from concern about her while Mr. Bradford was away with him.
Then Mr. Prescott took from his pocket a ticket that had on it “to” and “return.” After the “to” came a name, not very long, on the ticket, but one that, when it reached Aunt Mary’s eyes, would read, The Place of Places.
“Here,” said Mr. Prescott, “is the enclosure. Please write that letter first, Miss King. That must be posted to-night.”
That was Wednesday night. Then Mr. Prescott went home and told Billy that he must go to bed as soon as he had had his supper, so that he would be ready to start in the morning.
Thursday morning came. So did Joseph with the car.
If ever a man looked pleased with himself, it was Mr. Henry Marshall Prescott when he gave his motor coat a final pull with both hands, and settled himself on the seat behind Joseph, with Billy between him and his Uncle John.
They certainly did look well.
The young doctor knew all about automobile “togs,” as he called them. So, of course, he was strictly up to date.
There were some other up-to-date “togs” in that car. In point of fact, there were a good many. They had been sent up to the office the day before. Some of them were Billy’s. Being only a boy, he hadn’t thought of having any special clothes, but he had on everything that Mr. Prescott had been able to find “for a boy of thirteen.”
Some of them were Uncle John’s. Even Dr. Crandon’s weren’t any nearer up to calendar time than were those which Mr. Prescott had provided for John Bradford.
When he had helped John Bradford on with the coat, Mr. Prescott had looked straight at Billy with a say-anything-if-you-dare expression.
He knew, just as well as Billy did, that, though he had looked there, those things never came out of the closet at the mill.
When Uncle John put on goggles, Billy’s smile changed into a broad grin.
That didn’t disturb John Bradford. When he did a thing, he liked to do it all.
That morning, when Billy had told him about the trip and about Aunt Mary, he had taken time enough to smile a long, happy smile. Then he had said:
“Enjoy good things as they come along, and be thankful.”
He had worked that motto hard for a great many years, and he was ready to use it again. So he gave himself up to enjoying and to being thankful.
The car was a six cylinder—a big six, and Joseph was a steady driver.
They had gone about twenty miles when Dr. Crandon said:
“We are going along as smooth as glass.”
“I,” said John Bradford, “am enjoying the way that we go up-hill. I never could bear to see a horse straining every muscle to pull me up-hill.”
“I think,” said Mr. Prescott, “that horses ought to be thankful to the men that make automobiles or any sort of iron horse.”
Billy looked up at him.
“Iron horses,” he said. “I never thought of it that way before. There doesn’t seem to be any end to iron.”
“How about steel, young chap?” asked Dr. Crandon, from the front seat.
“That’s iron,” said Billy, “but I don’t know much about it except that it makes tools and swords.”
“And knives,” said Dr. Crandon, way down in his throat.
“Oh!” said Billy.
But nobody knew whether he said it to Dr. Crandon, or whether it was because the car came to a sudden stop.
“Puncture, sir,” said Joseph.
However Mr. Prescott may have felt, and he probably did have some feelings, he acted as though he didn’t mind in the least.
“That grove looks inviting,” he said. “Suppose we have some lunch.”
Then he unstrapped the lunch basket and, in a few minutes, they were all sitting under the trees enjoying sandwiches and ginger ale.
“Seems rather pleasant,” said Mr. Prescott, “to have a change. Dr. Crandon, what were you saying about knives?”
“Let me see,” said Dr. Crandon; “nothing, I think, except that they are made of steel. I’m somewhat interested in the subject.”
“Do you,” asked Billy, “know where jack-knives first came from?”
“Yes, young chap, I do. I know where some of the best come from now. I’ve been to Sheffield.”
“Where’s that?” asked Billy.
“England. You’ll often find the name on knives. I bought a steel ink eraser the other day which the clerk told me was ‘genuine Sheffield.’
“About the time that Queen Elizabeth died, Sheffield was famous for something else that you could never, never guess.”
“What?” asked Billy.
“Jew’s harps,” answered Dr. Crandon.
“Now, Billy,” said Mr. Prescott, “you can add the marks on steel to the sizes of hats.”
“I will,” said Billy.
“Look for Birmingham,” said Uncle John. “That’s famous for tools.”
“And Toledo is the place for scissors,” added Mr. Prescott.
“Speaking of marks,” said Dr. Crandon, “I have a sword marked with a crown.”
“A genuine Ferrara!” exclaimed Mr. Prescott. “I’m not going to covet my neighbor’s goods, but if you should ever come across another, please remember that I have only a Damascus and a Toledo.”
“Only!” exclaimed Dr. Crandon. “Those ought to be enough to satisfy any man. No special virtue in your not coveting my Ferrara.
“The point and the hilt of mine will come together, just the same,” he added with boyish pride.
“Bradford,” said Mr. Prescott, “you’ve been keeping pretty still. What’s in your mind?”
“Just then,” answered John Bradford, “I was thinking about something that my grandfather told me about his father.”
“As I figure it,” interrupted Mr. Prescott, “he would be Billy’s great-great-great-grandfather.”
“Yes,” replied John Bradford.
Billy, glancing at Mr. Prescott, smiled a satisfied sort of smile.
“He,” said John Bradford, “came from Massachusetts. He said that they used to fish up iron out of ponds with tongs such as oyster dredgers use.”
“Honest and true!” broke in Billy.
“Fact, Billy. Don’t interrupt,” said Mr. Prescott, shaking his head at Billy.
“He said,” continued John Bradford, “that, many a time, he had fished up half a ton a day.”
“That bog ore,” said Dr. Crandon, “is very interesting. It is deposited by infusoria—gaillonella ferruginea,” he added, trying to speak very professionally, though the corners of his mouth were twitching with fun.
Seeing that Billy was regarding him rather critically, he went on:
“You see, young chap, that there is iron almost everywhere; and it is very soluble in water, so it naturally goes into ponds; and those tiny animals in some way make it over into bog ore.
“The senior doctor was talking with me, the other day, about giving you some iron.”
“What for?” asked Billy abruptly.
“It’s iron in your blood that makes your cheeks red; iron in red apples; iron——”
“Pardon me, doctor,” interrupted Mr. Prescott, “the tire is on.”
“By the way, Bradford, I believe you’ve been told to take your time about returning?”
“So I understand,” answered John Bradford, smiling as he spoke.
“Then, if you don’t mind, Bradford, we’ll motor on to a place where these young fellows,” he said, waving his hand toward the doctor and Billy, “may be able to learn a thing or two more on the subject of iron.”
