Billy To-morrow's Chums - Public Domain

About Billy To-morrow's Chums - Public Domain

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[2] 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.”

[3]

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[4] 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[5] 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.