XI
CURLS
Ma Pettengill, long morose, for months made hostile of mood by theshortage of help, now bubbled with a strange vivacity. At her desk in theArrowhead living room she cheerfully sorted a jumble of befigured sheetsand proclaimed to one and all that the Arrowhead ranch was once more agoing concern. She'd thought it was gone, and here it was merely going.She would no longer be compelled to stare ruin in the face till itactually got embarrassed and had to look the other way. And it was theswift doings of this here new foreman. He'd not only got us going againbut had put us on a military basis. And at that he was nothing but a poorold wreck of a veteran from the trenches, aged all of twenty-one, shot topieces, gassed, shell-shocked, trench feeted and fevered, and darned badwith nervous dyspepsia into the bargain.
Thus described, the bargain seemed to me to be a poor one, for I had notyet viewed this decrepit newcomer or been refreshed with tales of hisprowess. But Ma Pettengill knows men, and positively will not bubbleexcept under circumstances that justify it, so I considered the matterworth a question or two.
Very well then! What about this mere shattered bit of flotsam from theworld welter? How could so misused a remnant cope with the manifold caresof the long-harried Arrowhead ranch?
Why, he just plain coped, that was all. He might be mere shatteredflotsam, but you bet he was still some little coper, take her word forthat! Matter of fact, though, he didn't aim to hold the job for long.Only until this here smarty of a medical officer, that turned him downfrom going back to the trenches, was retired to private life again.This here new foreman had to be on the ground when this puppet gotout of his uniform and so could be handled proper by the right partywithout incurring twenty years in Leavenworth. At this brief meeting theunfortunate man would be told politely that he had guessed wrong on theforeman's physical condition, after which the same would be proved tohim then and there, leaving him to wish that he hadn't been so arroganttelling parties they was unfit for further service and had better gohome and forget all about the war. Yes, sir; he'd be left himself withsomething to forget that most likely he'd still be remembering vividlywhen folks had got to wondering what them funny little buttons with"Liberty Loan" on 'em could ever of been used for.
Still, this palsied wreck was with us for a time and had started in thatvery morning to carry on. He used but few words, but treated 'em rough ifthey come looking for it. First, they was two I.W.W.'s down to the lowerfield had struck for three-fifty a day, and had threatened to burnsomeone's haystacks when it was coldly refused. So one had been took tojail and one to the hospital the minute the flotsam slowed up with 'em.It was a fair enough hospital case for both, but the one for jail couldstill walk.
Then two other new hands, two of these here demi-cowboys you have to putup with, had kept the bunk house noisy every night with a bitter personalquarrel including loud threats of mutual murder that never seemed toget any further. So the flotsam, after drinking in some of their mostvenomous eloquence, had lined 'em up and commanded 'em to git busy andfight it out quick. And he had then licked 'em both in a quick andexaggerated manner when they tried to keep on talking it out with him.
It was a sharply etched impression over the ranch, now shared by itsowner, that this here invalid flotsam would take darned little nonsensefrom any one. It was also the owner's own private impression that he hadbeen expelled from the war for rough behaviour on the field of battle andnot because of wounds or sickness. Most likely they'd told him the latterbecause they was afraid to tell him the truth. But that was the realtruth; he was too scrappy and wouldn't let the war go on in peace andquiet.
Anyway, she and the Army was both satisfied, so let it go at that.Mebbe after a few more arguments over there, when they'd made aconvinced pro-Ally out of Germany, she might get some more shell-wrackedjetsams like this one, that would step in without regard for the rules ofcivilized warfare and make the life of a certain beef-cattle raiser justone long dream of loveliness with pink rose leaves dreening down on her.Mebbe so!
I was charmed indeed to hear the gladsome note from one so long dismal.So I told the woman that the longest war must have its end and that bythis time next year she would be refusing to hire good help at forty-fivedollars a month and found, in place of the seventy-five she was nowlavishing on indolent stragglers.
She said in that happy case she might consent to adorn the cattlebusiness a few decades longer, but for her part she didn't believe warswould end. If it wasn't this war it would be another one, because humanbeings are undeniably human. As how? Well, I could take it this way. Sayone of these here inventors sets up nights for twenty years inventing agun that will shoot through a steel plate sixteen inches thick. All rightso far. But the next day another inventor invents a piece of steelseventeen inches thick. And it had to begin all over--just a seesaw. Fromwhere she set she couldn't see no end to it. Was she right; or wasn'tshe? Of course!
But now, further, about compelling little boys to wear long curls tillmaturity, with the idee of blunting their finer instincts and makinghellions of 'em, so's to have some dandy shock troops for the nextwar--well, she didn't know. Room for argument there.
This seemed reasonable. I didn't know either. It was an entirely newidee, come from nowhere. This was the very first moment I had supposedthere could be such an idee. But such is Ma Pettengill. I thought toinquire as to the origin of this novelty; perhaps to have it more fullyset forth. But I had not to. Already I saw unrelenting continuance in thewoman's quickened eye. There would be, in fact, no stopping her now. So Imight as well leave a one-line space right here to avoid using the doubleand single quotation marks, which are a nuisance to all concerned. I willmerely say that Ma Pettengill spoke in part as follows, and at no timeduring the interview said modestly that she would prefer not to have hername mentioned.
Mind you, I don't say war's a good thing, even for them that come out ofit. Of course you can read stories about how good it is in improving thecharacter. I've read pretty ones in these here sentimental magazinesthat get close to the great heart of the people once a month; storiesabout how the town tough boy, that robs his gray-haired mother of herwash money to play pool with, goes into war's purifying flames and comesout a man, having rescued Marshal Fotch from a shell hole under fire andgot the thanks of the French nation and his home-town paper. Now he don'thang round the pool parlour any more, running down fifteen balls from thebreak, but shuns his low companions, never touches a cue again, marriesthe mayor's daughter and becomes the regular Democratic candidate forcounty recorder.
These stories may be true. I don't know. Only these same magazines printstories that have a brave fireman in the picture carrying a fainted girldown his ladder through the flames, and if you believed them you'd alsobelieve they had to set a tenement house on fire every time a firemanwants to get married. And that don't stand to reason. Mebbe the otherstories don't either.
But what about the other side of these same stories? What about thevillage good boy that goes through war's purifying flame and comes backhome to be the town tough? Ain't it time someone showed up the moralravages war commits on our best young men?
Me? I just had a talk lately with a widowed mother down to Red Gap andwhat this beastly war has done to her oldest boy--well, if she could oflooked ahead she would of let the world go right on being unsafe even forRepublicans. She poured her heart out to me. She is Mrs. Arline Plunkett,one of the sweetest, gentlest mothers that ever guarded a son from everyevil influence. And then to see it all go whoosh! The son's name wasShelley Plunkett, or it was until he went out into the world to make aname for himself. He is now largely known as Bugs Plunkett. I leave itto you if a nice mother would relish having her boy make that name forhimself. And after all the pains she'd took with his moral developmentfrom the cradle up--till he run away from home on account of his curls!
Arline had been left well-off by her husband, who was president ofthe Drovers' Trust Company, and her home was about the most refinedhome in Red Gap, having full bookcase
s and pictures of foreign Catholicchurches--though Arline is a Presbyterian--and metal statues of antiquepersons, male and female, and many articles of adornment that can't behad for the ordinary trading stamps. She lived, of course, only for hertwo boys, Shelley and Keats. Keats being an infant didn't require muchliving for, but Shelley was old enough to need a lot of it.
He was eight years old when I first seen him, with long golden curls tohis shoulders and lace on his velvet pants. He came in when I was callingon his ma and acted the perfect little gentleman. He was so quiet andgrown-up he made me feel right awkward. He had the face of a half-growedangel framed in these yellow curls, and his manners was them of SirGalahad that he read stories about. He was very entertaining this day.His mother had him show me a portrait of himself and curls that had beenprinted in a magazine devoted to mothers and watermelon-rind pickles, andso forth, and he also brought me the new book his pastor had presentedhim with on his eighth birthday.
It was a lovely bound book, having a story about a sheepman that had ahundred head out on the range and lost one and left the other ninety-nineunprotected from the coyotes and went out into the brush looking for thelost one, which is about the brains of the average sheepman; but it was apretty book, and little Shelley told me prettily all about the story, andshowed me how his dear pastor had wrote in it for him. He had wrote: "ToShelley Vane Plunkett, who to the distinction of his name unites a nobleand elevated nature." I wonder if Bugs Plunkett ever looks at thatwriting now and blushes for his lost angel face? Anyway, I thought thisday that he was the loveliest, purest child in the world, with hisdelicate beauty and sweet little voice and perfect manners, all setoff by the golden curls.
A couple days later I was going through that same street and when Iturned a corner next to the Plunkett house, here was little Shelleyaddressing a large red-faced man on the back of an ice wagon that hadstopped there. It was some shock to my first notions of the angel child.I gathered with no trouble whatever that the party on the ice wagon hadso far forgot his own manners as to call little Shelley a sissy. It was agood three-to-one bet he was now sorry he spoke. Little Shelley was usinglanguage beyond his years and words that had never been taught him by hislady mother. He handled them words like they was his slaves. Three orfour other parties stopped to listen without seeming to. I have heardmuch in my time. I have even been forced to hear Jeff Tuttle pack a mulethat preferred not to be packed. And little Shelley was informing, evento me. He never hesitated for a word and was quick and finished with thesyllables.
The ice-wagon man was peeved, as he had a right to be, and may of beengoing to talk back, but when he saw the rest of us getting Shelley heyelled to the man in the front to drive on. It was too late, quick ashe went, to save the fair repute of himself and family, if Shelley'swords was to be took seriously. Shelley had invaded the most sacredrelationship and pretended to bare a hideous scandal. Also the icemanhimself couldn't possibly of done half the things Shelley hotly urgedhim to do.
Us people that had seemed to linger walked right on, not meeting eachother's eye, and Shelley again become the angel child, turning in at hisgate and walking up the path in a decorous manner with his schoolbooksunder his arm. I first wondered if I shouldn't go warn Arline that herchild had picked up some words that would get him nowhere at all with hisdoting pastor. Little could the fond woman dream, when she tucked him inafter his prayers at night, that talk such as this could come from hissweet young lips. How much mothers think they know of their sons and howdarned little they do know! But I decided to keep out of it, rememberingthat no mother in the world's history had ever thanked a person foranything but praise of her children.
Still, I couldn't help but worry about Shelley's future, both here andhereafter. But I talked to other people about it and learned that he wasalready known as a public character to everyone but his own dear mother.It was these here curls that got him attacked on every hand by young andold, and his natural vigour of mind had built him up a line of reparteethat was downright blistering when he had time to stop and recite it all.Even mule skinners would drive blocks out of their way just to hearlittle Shelley's words when someone called him sissy or girl-boy.
It seems Shelley never took any of these troubles to his mother, becausehe was right manly and he regarded curls as a natural infirmity thatcouldn't be helped and that his poor ma shouldn't be blamed for. He'dalways had curls, just as other unfortunates had been disfigured ormaimed from birth, so he'd took it as a cross the Lord had give him tobear. And he was willing to bear it in silence if folks would just lethim alone. Otherwise, not. Oh, most surely not!
I kind of kept watch on Shelley's mad career after that. It was mad mostof the time. He had already begun to fight as well as to use language,and by the time he was ten he was a very nasty scrapper. And ready--itsoon got so that only boys new-come to town would taunt him about hisgolden locks. And unless they was too much out of Shelley's class he madebelievers of 'em swiftly. From ten to twelve he must of had at least onegood fight a day, what with the new ones and the old ones that stillcouldn't believe a boy in velvet pants with curls on his shoulders couldreally put it over on 'em. His mother believed his clothes was tore andhis face bunged up now and then in mere boyish sports, and begged him notto engage in such rough games with his childish playmates. And Shelley,the little man, let her talk on, still believing he was like little PaulMcNamara, that had a crooked foot. He wasn't going to shame his mother aswell as himself.
I don't know just how Shelley ever got his big illumination that curlswas not a curse put on him by his Maker. But he certainly did get it whenhe was round twelve. After two years of finish fights he suddenly foundout that curls is optional, or a boy's own fault, if not his mother's,and that they may be cured by a simple and painless operation. He'd cometo the observing age. They say he'd stand in front of Henry Lehman'sbarber shop every chance he'd get, watching the happy men getting theirhair cut. And he put two and two together.
Then he went straight to his mother and told her all about his wonderfuland beautiful discovery. He was awful joyous about it. He said you onlyhad to go to Mr. Lehman's barber shop with thirty-five cents, and thekind Mr. Lehman would cut the horrible things off and make him look likeother boys, so please let him have the thirty-five.
Then Shelley got a great shock. It was that his mother wanted him to wearthem things to please her. She burst into tears and said the mere thoughtof her darling being robbed of his crowning glory by that nasty old HenryLehman or any one else was breaking her heart, and how could he be socruel as to suggest it?
The poor boy must of been quite a bit puzzled. Here was a way out ofsomething he had thought was incurable, and now his mother that loved himburst into tears at the thought of it. So he put it out of his mind. Hecouldn't hurt his mother, and if cutting off his disgrace was going tohurt her he'd have to go on wearing it.
Shelley was getting lanky now, with big joints and calf knees showingbelow his velvet pants; and he was making great headway, I want to tellyou, in what seemed to be his chosen profession of pugilism. He took togoing out of his class, taking on boys two or three years older. I neverhad the rare pleasure of seeing him in action, but it was mere lack ofenterprise on my part. Before he found out that curls could be relievedby a barber he had merely took such fights as come to him. But now hewent out of his way looking for 'em, and would start the action himself.
It got so that boys used to travel in bands--them that had criticized hisappearance so he'd hear it--but he'd lie in wait for stragglers that wasleft behind by the convoy, and it would be the same old sad story. Youcan know what it meant when I tell you that the last year Shelley went toschool they say he could come onto the playground with his long yellowcurls floating in the breeze, and not a word would be heard from thefifty boys that might be there.
And so it went till he was thirteen. One succession of fights and agrowing collection of words that would of give his fond pastor somethingto think about. Of course word of the fights would get to Shell
ey's mafrom mothers whose little ones he had ravaged, but she just simply didn'tbelieve it. You know a woman can really not believe anything she don'twish to. You couldn't tell that lady that her little boy with the angelface and soft voice would attack another boy unless the other boy begunit. And if the other boy did begin it it was because he envied Shelleyhis glorious curls. Arline was certainly an expert in the malepsychology, as they call it.
But at thirteen Shelley was losing a lot of the angel out of his face.His life of battle had told on him, I guess. But he was still obedientand carried the cross for his mother's sake. Poor thing! He'd formed thehabit of obedience and never once suspicioned that a woman had no rightto impose on him just because she was his mother. Shelley just took tofighting a little quicker. He wouldn't wait for words always. Sometimesmere looks of disgust would start him.
Then, when he got to near fourteen, still with the beautiful curls, hebegun to get a lovely golden down on his face; and the face hadn't hardlya trace of angel left in it. The horrible truth was that Shelley not onlyneeded a haircut but a shave. And one day, goaded by certain taunts, hetold his mother this in a suddenly bass voice. It must of startledArline, having this roar come out of her child when his little voice hadalways been sweet and high. So she burst into some more tears and Shelleyasked her forgiveness, and pretty soon she was curling his hair again. Iguess he knew right then it was for the last time on earth, but nothingwarned the mother.
These new taunts that had finally made a man of Shelley was no tauntsfrom boys, which he could handle easy, but the taunts of heedless girls,who naturally loathed a boy with curls even more than male humans of anyage loathe him; and girls can be a lot tauntier when they start out to.Well, Shelley couldn't lick girls, and he had reached an age when theirtaunts cut into his hide like whiplashes, so he knew right well he hadto do something desperate.
Then he went out and run away from the refining influences of hisbeautiful home. He took to the hills and landed way up on the northfork of the Kulanche where Liver-eating Johnson has a sheep ranch.Liver-eating, who is an unsavory character himself, had once heardShelley address a small group of critics in front of the post office,and had wanted to adopt him right there. He still cherished the fondestmemories of Shelley's flow of language, so he was tickled to death tohave him drop along and stop, seeing that though but a lad in years hewas a man and brother in speech, even if he did look like a brother thathad started out to be a sister and got mixed.
Liver-eating took him in and fed him and cut his hair with a pair ofsheep shears. It was a more or less rough job, because shearing sheepdoes not make a man a good human barber by any means. But Shelleylooked at his head in the glass and said it was the most beautifulhaircut in the world. Fussy people might criticize it here and there,but they could never say it hadn't really been cut.
He was so grateful to Liver-eating that he promised to stay with himalways and become a sheep herder. And he did hide out there severalmonths till his anguished mother found out where he was. After havingevery pond dragged and every bit of woods searched for her boy's bodyshe had believed he'd been carried off by kidnappers on account of hisheavenly beauty, and she'd probably have to give ten thousand dollarsfor his release. She was still looking for a letter from these fiendswhen she learned about his being with Liver-eating Johnson and thatthis wretch had committed sacrilege on him.
It was a harsh blow to know that her pet had consorted with such aperson, who was not only a sheepman but had earned his nickname in away that our best people thought not nice. He'd gone home one day yearsago and found his favourite horse had been took by an Injun. Being asimple-mannered man of few words, he just said that by sundown to-morrowhe would of et the liver of the Injun that done the stealing. I don'tknow, personally, what happened, except that he did come back the nextnight with his horse. Anyway no one ever begrudged him his title afterthat. And here was Shelley Vane Plunkett, who had been carefully raisedon fruits and cereals, taking up with such a nauseous character as asocial equal.
Arline had the sheriff out at once for her darling, but Shelley got wordand beat it farther. He finally got to Seattle, where he found variousjobs, and kept his mother guessing for three years. He was afraid she'dmake him start the curls again if he come home. But finally, when he waseighteen, he did come, on her solemn promise to behave. But he was nolonger the angel-faced darling that had left, and he still expected atleast one fight a day, though no longer wearing what would cause fights.He'd formed the habit and just couldn't leave off. A body could hardlylook at him without starting something unpleasant. He was round like abarrel now, and tough and quick, and when anything did happen to bestarted he was the one that finished it. Also, he'd have his hair cutclose every five or six days. He always looked like a prisoner that hadstarted to let it grow about a week before he left the institution.Shelley was taking no chances, and he used to get a strange, glitteringlook in his eye when he regarded little Keats, his baby brother, who wasnow coming on with golden curls just as beautiful as Shelley's had everbeen. But he done nothing sinister.
In time he might of settled down and become a useful citizen, but rightthen the war broke out, so no more citizen stuff for Shelley. It wasalmost too good to be true that he could go to a country where fightingwas legal; not only that, but they'd give him board and lodging and alittle spending money for doing the only thing he'd ever learned to dowell. It sure looked like heaven. So off he went to Canada and enlistedand got sent across and had three years of perfect bliss, getting changedover to our Army when we finally got unneutral so you could tell it.
Of course his mother was almost more anguished about his going to warthan about having his curls fixed with the sheep shears. She said evenif he wasn't shot he would be sure to contract light habits in France,consisting of native wine and dancing, and so forth, and she hoped atleast he could be a drummer boy or something safe.
But Shelley never had a safe moment, I guess. No such thing as a quietsector where he was. He fought at the Front, and then he'd fight athospitals every time he got took back there for being shot up. He wasalmost too scrappy even for that war. He was usually too busy to write,but we got plenteous reports of his adventures from other men, theseadventures always going hard with whatever Germans got in his way.And I bet his mother never dreamed that his being such a demon fighterwas all due to her keeping him in curls so long, where he got the habitand come to love it for its own sake.
Anyway, he fought and fought and had everything happen to him that Germanscience had discovered was useful to exterminate the lesser races, and itfinally begun to tell on him, hardened as he was by fighting from thecradle up, as you might say.
It was a glad day for Arline when she got word that he was a broken-downinvalid and had landed at an Atlantic Ocean port on his way home. Shegot arrowroot gruel and jelly and medicinal delicacies and cushions, andlooked forward to a life of nursing. She hoped that in the years to comeshe could coax the glow of health back to his wan cheeks. And I wouldn'tput it past her--mebbe she hoped she could get him to let the golden hairgrow again, just long enough to make him interesting as he lay coughingon his couch.
And Shelley come home, but his idee of being an invalid wasn't anythinglike his mother's. He looked stout as a horse, and merely wished to restup for a couple weeks before getting some other kind of action suited tohis peculiar talents. And worse, he wasn't Shelley Vane Plunkett--he wasBugs Plunkett; and his mother's heart broke again. He was shaved like aconvict and thicker through than ever, and full of rich outdoor wordsabout what he would do to this so-and-so medical officer for not lettinghim back into the scrap. Yes, sir; that man is going to suffer casualtiesright up to the limit the minute he gets out of his uniform--and himthinking the world is at peace once more! Sure, Shelley had been shotthrough the lungs a couple of times, and one leg had been considerablyaltered from the original plan, but he had claimed he was a betterscrapper than ever before and had offered to prove it to this medicalofficer right then and there if it could be
done quiet. But this fairoffer had been rejected.
So here he'd come back, not any kind of a first-class invalid that wouldbe nice to nurse, but as Bugs Plunkett! No sooner did he get to town thanletters and postal cards begun to come addressed to Mr. Bugs Plunkett ormebbe B. Plunkett, Esquire; and the cards would be from his old pals inthe trenches, many of whom had worse names, even, than Shelley had madefor himself.
Also the sick warrior turned down flat the arrowroot gruel and Irish-mosscustard and wine jelly and pale broth. He had to have the same coarsefood that is et by common working people who have had no home advantages,including meat, which is an animal poison and corrupts the finerinstincts of man by reducing him to the level of the brutes. So ArlinePlunkett says. Shelley had it, though, ordering it in a bass voice thatmade the statuary teeter. Steak was cooked in the Plunkett home forthe first time since it had been erected, notwithstanding the horribleexample it set to little Keats, who still had golden curls as lovely asShelley's once had been and was fed on fruits and nuts.
Arline couldn't of had any pleasant time with her wandering boy themthree weeks he was there. She suffered intensely over the ignominy ofthis mail that came to him by the awful name of Bugs, with the gossipsin the post office telling it everywhere, so that the boys round thecigar store got to calling him Bugs right out plain. And her son seemingproud of this degradation!
And she couldn't get him to protect himself from drafts by night.He'd insist on having a window wide open, and when she'd sneak back toclose it so he wouldn't catch his death of cold he'd get up and courtdestruction by hoisting it again. And once when she'd crept in and shutit a second time he threw two shoes through the upper and lower parts soit would always be open. He claimed he done this in his sleep, having gotinto the habit in the trenches when he'd come in from a long march andsomeone would close all the windows. But Arline said that this onlyshowed that war had made him a rowdy, even in his sleep--and out of thegentlest-mannered boy that ever wore velvet garments and had a cinch onevery prize in the Sunday school; though she did not use coarse wordslike that. She told me herself it was time we got this other side of whatwar did to gently nurtured youths that had never soiled their lips withan oath in their lives until they went into war's hell. She said justthat!
Also Shelley had contracted the vicious habit of smoking, which was alla body would want to know about war. She said he'd have his breakfast inbed, including whole slices of ham, which comes from the most loathsomeof all animals, and would then lie and smoke the Lord Byron five-centcigar, often burning holes in the covers, which he said was another oldtrench habit--and that showed what war done to the untainted human soil.Also while smoking in bed he would tell little Keats things no innocentchild should hear, about how fine it feels to deflate Germans with a goodbayonet. She had never esteemed Lord Byron as a poet, and these cigars,she assures me, was perfectly dreadful in a refined home, where theycould be detected even in the basement.
Little Keats was now thirteen, with big joints and calf knees showingunder the velvet pants, and I guess his curls was all that persuaded hismother to live, what with Shelley having gone to the bad and made a namefor himself like Bugs. But little Keats had fell for his brother, andspent all the time he could with him listening to unpretty stories ofGermans that had been fixed up proper the way the good Lord meant 'emto be.
After he'd been home a couple weeks or more Shelley begun to noticelittle Keats more closely. He looked so much like Shelley had at that ageand had the same set-on manner in the house that Shelley got suspicioushe was leading the same double life he had once led himself.
He asked his mother when she was going to take Keats to a barber, and hismother burst into tears in the old familiar way, so he said no more toher. But that afternoon he took little Keats out for a stroll and closelywatched his manner toward some boys they passed. They went on downtownand Shelley stepped into the Owl cigar store to get a Lord Byron. When hecome out little Keats was just finishing up a remark to another boy. Ithad the familiar ring to Shelley and was piquant and engaging even afterthree years in the trenches, where talk is some free. Keats still had theangel face, but had learned surprisingly of old English words.
Then Shelley says to him: "Say, kid, do you like your curls?" And littleKeats says very warmly and almost shedding tears: "They're simply hell!"
"I knew it," says Shelley. "Have many fights?"
"Not so many as I used to," says Keats.
"I knew that, too," says Shelley. "Now, then, you come right along withme."
So he marches Keats and curls down to Henry Lehman's and says: "Give thispoor kid a close haircut."
And Henry Lehman won't do it. He says that Mrs. Plunkett, the time ofthe scandal about Shelley, had warned every barber in town that she wouldhave the law on 'em if they ever harmed a hair on the head of a child ofhers; and he was a law-abiding citizen. He didn't deny that the boyneeded a haircut the worst way in the world, but at his time of life hewasn't going to become an outlaw.
Keats had nearly broke down at this. But Shelley says: "All right; comeon over to the other place."
So they go over to Katterson Lee, the coloured barber, and Kattersontells 'em the same story. He admits the boy needs a haircut till itamounts to an outrage, but he's had his plain warning from Shelley's ma,and he ain't going to get mixed up with no lawsuit in a town where he'sknown to one and all as being respectable.
Shelley then threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't cut that hairoff quick, and Katterson was right afraid of the returned soldier, thathad fixed so many Germans right, but he was more afraid of the law, sohe got down on his knees to Shelley and begged for his life.
Little Keats was now blubbering, thinking he wasn't going to be shut ofhis disgrace after all, but Shelley says: "All right, kid; I'll stand byyou. I'll do it myself. Get into that chair!"
Of course Katterson couldn't prevent that, so Keats got sunny again andclimbed into the chair, and Shelley grabbed a pair of shears and made asure-nuff boy of him. He got the curls off all right, but when it come totrimming up he found he couldn't do a smooth job, and Katterson wasn'tthere to give him any hints, having run from his shop at the beginning ofthe crime so he would have a good alibi when hauled into court. SoShelley finally took up a pair of clippers, and having learned to clipmules he soon had little Keats' whole scalp laid bare. It must of been aglorious sight. They both gloated over it a long time.
Then Keats says: "Now you come with me and we'll show it to mamma!" ButShelley says: "Not me! I have to draw the line somewhere. I shall be faraway from here to-night. I am not afraid of enemy soldiers, for I've beenup against them too often. But there are worse things than death, soyou'll have to face mamma alone. You can tell her I did it, but I willnot be there to hear you. So good-bye and God help you!" And Shelleyretired to a position less exposed.
That was an awful day for the Plunkett home, because little Keats, beingleft to his own resources, tried to use his brain. First he gathered upthe long shining curls and wrapped 'em in a newspaper. Then he wentout and found Artie Bartell, who is a kind of a harmless halfwit thatjust walks the streets and will do anything whatever if told, beinganxious to please. Keats gives Artie a dime to take the curls up to hisdear mother and tell her that her little boy has been run over by afreight engine down to the station and these here curls was all thatcould be saved of him.
Then he hurries home the back way and watches, and pretty soon he seessome neighbours come rushing to the house when they hear his motherscream, so then he knows everything is all right. He waits a minute ortwo, then marches in with his hat off. His mother actually don't know himat first, on account of his naked skull, but she soon sees it must be he,little Keats, and then has hysterics because she thinks the freightengine has clipped him this way. And of course there was more hystericswhen she learned the terrible truth of his brother's infamy. I guessShelley had been wise all right to keep off the place at that time,soldier or no soldier. But that's neither here nor there.
&
nbsp; The point is that little Keats may now be saved to a life of usefulnessand not be hanged for murder, thanks to his brother's brave action. Ofcourse Bugs himself is set in his ways, and will adorn only positions ofa certain kind. He's fine here, for instance, just at this time when Igot to hire all kinds that need a firm hand--and Bugs has two.
Sure, it was him took the job of foreman here yesterday. We had quite alittle talk about things when he come. He told me how he released hislittle brother from shame. He said he wouldn't of done such a radicalthing except that peace is now coming on and the world will no longerneed such fighting devils as curls will make of a boy if let to staylong enough.
"Keats might have turned out even worse than I did," he says, "butif there wasn't going to be any way where he could do it legally, whatwas the use? He'd probably sometime have killed a boy that called himGoldilocks, and then the law might have made it unpleasant for him. Ithought it was only fair to give him a chance to live peaceful. Of coursein my own case mamma acted for the best without knowing it. We neededfighters, and I wouldn't have been anything at all like a fighter if shehadn't made me wear those curls till my whiskers began to show above thesurface. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was a born coward, but those goldenstrands took all that out of me. I had to fight.
"And see what it did for me in the Army. I don't want to talk aboutmyself, but I made a good average fighter and I would have been thereto the last if I'd had my rights. And I simply owe it all to my dearmother. You might say she made me the man I am. I wouldn't ever have beentough if she'd cut my hair humanely from six years on. I certainly hopeKeats hasn't gone too long. One of us in a family is enough."
That's the way Bugs talks, and it sounds right sensible. What I say nowis, the idee had ought to be took up by the War Department at Washington,D. C. Let 'em pass a law that one boy out of, say, twenty-five hasgot to wear curls till his voice changes. By that time, going round inthis here scenic investiture, as you might say, he will be a demon. Inpeace times it may add to our crimes of violence, but look what it willbe when another war comes. We'll have the finest line of shock troopsthe world has ever produced, fit and anxious to fight, having led anembittered existence long enough to make it permanent. No line wouldever stand against a charge of them devils. They would be a greatnational asset and might save the country while we was getting readyto begin to prepare a couple months after war was declared on us.
Still I don't suppose it will be took up, and I ain't got time to go downand preach it to Congress personally.
And now let me tell you one thing: I'm going to sleep to-night without acare on my mind for the first time in a year. This here Bugs unites tothe distinction of his name a quick and handy nature, and my busiesttroubles are over.
Ma Pettengill Page 11