Ben Stone at Oakdale

“Jerry,” said Roger – “he called him Jerry. Why, father, it must be Ben’s own brother.”

“His brother? Why, I didn’t know – ”

“He told me about his brother,” explained Roger. “They were separated after Ben’s parents died. Jerry is blind.”

“Oh!” murmured Amy. “Isn’t that just dreadful! Blind and walking all alone with only a dog for company! We must take him in the car, papa.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Eliot, opening the door and stepping out. “This is a most remarkable occurrence.”

In the meantime, Ben and Jerry – for it was indeed Ben’s unfortunate younger brother – were transported by the joy and surprise of the unexpected meeting. They clung to each other, laughing, crying and talking brokenly and incoherently. The little dog, who had at first seemed to fear some harm threatened its master, frisked back and forth before them, barking frantically, finally sitting up on its haunches with its forward paws drooping, its mouth open and its protruding tongue quivering; for at last it appeared to comprehend that there was really no danger, and this affair was one over which even a small yellow dog should laugh and be happy.

Roger had left the automobile likewise, and he came back to them, waiting near at hand until they should recover from the distracting excitement of the moment.

“Oh, Jerry!” choked Ben. “To find you here – I don’t understand it, Jerry.”

“I’ll tell you all about it, Ben, as soon as I can. I’ve been searching for you everywhere, but I was afraid I’d never, never find you.”

“Stone,” said Roger, “take him into the car.”

Jerry shrank against his older brother. “Who – who is it, Ben?” he whispered.

“A friend – the best friend – besides you, Jerry – that I’ve ever known. We’ve been playing football, and we’re going back to Oakdale now – going back in a big, fine automobile. This is Roger Eliot, Jerry.”

Roger stepped forward and took one of the little lad’s soiled hands. “I’m very glad to meet Ben’s brother,” he declared with such sincerity that Jerry’s alarm was instantly dispelled and his sympathy won. “My father’s auto is waiting, and there’s room to spare.”

“You never rode in an automobile, Jerry,” said Ben. “It’s corking.”

Through the dusk Roger saw the smaller lad’s sightless eyes turned upon him.

“But – but my little dog, Pilot?” said Jerry questioningly. “I must take him. I know he’s tired, the same as I am, and I wouldn’t leave him for – ”

“Certainly we’ll take him,” assured Roger. “Come on.”

To the sightless wayfarer it was a marvel beyond words, almost beyond comprehension. He heard them speak of Roger’s father and felt the reassuring touch of Urian Eliot’s strong but gentle hands, while the voice of the man sounded in his ears. He was lifted into the tonneau of the car, the dog whining nervously at the end of the line until bidden follow, upon which, with a single sharp yap of thankfulness, he sprang up. He heard also the voice of a child, who spoke softly and seemed glad to welcome him. It was not strange that his head swam with the wonderment of it.

While waiting, the chauffeur had lighted the gas lamps of the car, and, with the machine again under way, they blazed a golden path through the deepening autumn darkness. The sharp, cold air whipped Jerry’s cheeks, but the strong arm of the brother he loved was about him, and his heart beat with happiness so intense that it was like a keen, sweet pain.

CHAPTER XXII.

A SYMPATHETIC SOUL

Both Roger and his father urged Ben and Jerry to come home with them for dinner, but the older brother declined, saying that they had many things to talk over between them. Already Ben had found that Jerry was disinclined to answer his eager questions in the presence of the strangers, and he was consumed with curiosity to know what singular chance had brought the blind boy thither.

When the automobile stopped in front of the house, Jimmy Jones, his eyes big with wonderment, peered forth through the darkness and saw the two boys alight and the little dog hop out after them. Then good nights were called, the big car swung slowly round and rolled away, and Jimmy came hopping forth, palpitant to know about the game.

“Did you play, Ben – did you play?” he asked. “Who won?”

“We did, and I played, Jimmy.”

“Oh, good! I wish I could ‘a’ been there to see it. Mother she’s kept some hot bread for you and some coffee. She said you’d be hungry.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, her ample figure appearing in the doorway. “You’re young and strong, and I don’t b’lieve hot bread will do no damage to your dejesshun. Joel, my late departed, he was a master hand for hot bread and presarves. We had baked beans for supper, an’ I’ve left the pot in the oven, so they’re piping hot. Joel, he used to eat about four heapin’ plates of beans, an’ then he’d complain because every little morsel he put into his stummick disagreed with him. Who’s that with ye?”

“This is my brother, Mrs. Jones – my brother Jerry. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, and he’s been walking far to-day, so he’s very tired. Step up, Jerry.”

Ben grasped the little chap’s arm and guided him as the steps were mounted. In an aside he whispered for the ear of Mrs. Jones, “He’s blind.”

“Land sakes!” breathed the good woman, putting up both hands. “Come right in and set down to the table. Mamie, she’s gone out somewhere, an’ Sadie’s having one of her chills. Don’t stumble on the doorstool. Right this way.”

Gently but firmly she swept them into the room, where the table still sat with the white cloth and some dishes upon it. Jerry clung to the line, and now the little dog followed at his heels.

“This is a surprise,” said the widow, as she hastened to place another plate and another chair. “Y’u never told me about your brother, Ben; fact is, y’u never told me much about y’urself, nohow. I s’pose y’u’ll want to wash up. There’s the sink an’ soap an’ water an’ a clean towel. Did y’u come all the way from Clearport in Mr. Eliot’s automobile? My goodness! that must ‘a’ been grand. I don’t cal’late I’ll ever have no opportunity to ride in one of them things, an’ I guess I’d be scat to death if I did, ’cause they go so fast. Don’t it ’most take a body’s breath away?”

“Not quite as bad as that,” answered Ben, smiling; “but it’s splendid, and I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” said Jerry. “It ’most felt like I was kind of flying through the air. I hope I ain’t making nobody a lot of trouble, coming so unexpected this way.”

“Trouble!” beamed Mrs. Jones. “My gracious! I should say not! Why, Ben he’s gittin’ to be ’most like one of my fambly, though sometimes it’s hard work makin’ him come down to eat with us when I ax him. I ain’t like some folks, thank goodness, that’s put out and upsot over every little thing that happens; an’ if I’d been so, livin’ so many years with an ailing husband, they’d had me dead an’ buried long before him. I never can endure folks that’s always complaining about the hard time they have to get along, when there’s so much to enjoy in this world an’ so much to be thankful for. Every time I git sorter billious and downcast an’ dejec’ed I look ’round till I find somebody that’s wuss off than I be, an’ then I take holt an’ try to give them a lift, an’ that cheers me up an’ makes me feel thankful an’ content with my lot.”

As she talked she brought forth the beans and poured them, steaming, upon a huge platter. Hot bread, fresh butter and a dish of preserves were likewise placed on that table, after which the coffee was poured.

“Now,” said the widow, “I want to see y’u two youngsters make a hole in the vittles.”

“I think we can,” laughed Ben. “I know I’m mighty hungry, and I expect Jerry is, too.”

Jerry was hungry, indeed; really, the little fellow was almost starved, and it was with no small difficulty that he repressed the eager desire to gulp his food. Watching him, the widow understood, and covertly, even while she talked in the same cheerful, optimistic strain, she wiped her eyes more than once with the corner of her apron. There was something about these two boys that appealed to her big, motherly heart, and the thought that the thin, weary-looking little chap was doomed never to enjoy the precious privilege of sight gave her a feeling of regret and sorrow that she found difficult to disguise.

“You see,” said Ben suddenly, thinking it courteous and necessary to make some explanation – “you understand, Mrs. Jones, that if I’d known Jerry was coming I’d told you about it. He gave me a regular surprise. I hope you won’t mind if he stops with me to-night, for there’s plenty of room, and – ”

“Land sakes! what be y’u talkin’ about, Ben?” interrupted the widow protestingly. “Mind – ’course I don’t mind! I’m glad he’s come. I’m glad y’u have got some comp’ny to cheer y’u up, for sometimes y’u do sort of seem to need it, an’ I know I can’t just fill the bill; for old folks never do jibe in proper an’ sympathetic with young folks. Then I’m so busy I don’t have the time to look arter y’u the way I’d like to.”

“You’ve been very good indeed to me, Mrs. Jones – almost like a mother,” returned Ben. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Now don’t talk that way. Goodness gracious! ain’t y’u fussed ’round amusin’ Jimmy, a-fixin’ squirrel traps an’ swings an’ things for him? That’s more’n squared any little thing I could do for y’u to make y’u comf’table.”

“Look!” cried Jimmy. “The little dog is hungry. See him begging. He’s hungry, mom. Can’t I feed him?”

Pilot was sitting on his haunches, his forward paws drooping as he turned his head to look from one to another beseechingly.

“’Course y’u can feed him,” said the widow quickly. “I sorter forgot about him. Lemme look, an’ I’ll see if I’ve got a bone in the pantry.”

She found some bones and scraps, which she brought forth on a plate, and Jimmy, begging the privilege, was permitted to feed Pilot, who expressed his appreciation by a sharp bark and such frantic wagging of his tail that his whole body was shaken from side to side all the way to his forward shoulders.

When supper was over, to satisfy Jimmy, Ben was compelled to tell about the football game, and this he did with such modesty that the listeners, who had not witnessed the contest, were given no inkling as to how conspicuously he had figured in it. He was even fair and generous enough to accord Hayden all the credit the fellow deserved.

At the first mention of Bern’s name the blind lad uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm, reaching out a trembling hand to touch his brother.

“Ben! Ben!” he exclaimed. “It’s not Bern Hayden who – who used to live in Hilton – not that fellow?”