The Very Small Person Part 14

The Little White Feller rarely laughed, but now--"You--you Jolly boy!" he choked, "you'll find him under a hay-stack fast aslee-- No, no!" suddenly grave and solicitous of the other's feelings, "in the dictionary, I mean. _Words_, don't you know?"

"Oh, get out!" grinned the Jolly boy, in glee at having made the Little White Feller laugh out like that, reg'lar-built. "Hand him over, then, but you'll have to do the spellin'."

"Rec-om-pense,--p-e-n-_s_-e," Morry said, slowly, "I found it in a magazine,--there's the greatest lot o' words in magazines! Look up 'rec,' Jolly,--I mean, please."

Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had never dreamed there were so many words in the world,--pages and pages and pages of 'em! The prospect of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, but he plunged in st.u.r.dily, determination written on every freckle.

"Don't begin at the first page!" cried Morry, hastily. "Begin at R,--it's more than half-way through. R-e,--r-e-c,--that way."

Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously his little, blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the red tip of his tongue endless times,--wished 'twas over. He had meant to begin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k,--at Number Seven they spelled it that way. Hadn't he lost a mark for spelling it without a "w"? But of course if folks preferred the r kind--

"Hi!" the blunt finger leaped into s.p.a.ce and waved triumphantly.

"R-e-c-k,--I got him!"

"Not 'k,'--there isn't any 'k.' Go backwards till you drop it, Jolly,--you dropped it?"

Dictionaries are terrible,--still, leaving a letter off o' the end isn't as bad as off o' the front. Jolly retraced his steps patiently.

"I've dropped it," he announced in time.

Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking up words with other people's fore-fingers is pretty tough.

"Now, the second story,--'rec' is the first," he explained. "You must find 'rec-om' now, you know."

No, Jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted.

"We'll tree him," he said, cheerily, "but I think I could do it easier if I whistled"--

"Whistle," Morry said.

With more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then--eureka! there you were! But eureka was not what Jolly said.

"Bully for us!" he shouted. He felt _thrilly_ with pride of conquest.

"It's easy enough finding things. What's the matter with dictionaries!"

"Now read what it means, Jolly,--I mean, please. Don't skip."

"'Rec-om-pense: An equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anything given, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion.'"

"That all?--every speck?"

"Well, here's another one that says 'To make a-mends,' if you like that one any better. Sounds like praying."

"Oh," sighed Morry, "how I'd like to know what equi-valent means!"

but he did not ask the other to look it up. He sank back on his pillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could.

"To make amends" he felt sure meant to _make up_. To make up for something given or suffered,--perhaps that was what a Rec-om-pense was. For something given or suffered--like legs, maybe? Limp, no-good-legs that wouldn't go? Could there be a Rec-om-pense for _those?_ Could anything ever "make up"?

"Supposing you hadn't any legs, Jolly,--that would go?" he said, aloud, with disquieting suddenness. Jolly started, but nodded comprehendingly. He had not had any legs for a good many minutes; the telescoping process is numbing in the extreme.

"Do you think anything could ever Rec-om-pense--make up, you know?

Especially if you suffered? Please don't speak up quick,--think, Jolly."

"I'm a-thinkin'." Not to have 'em that would go,--not _go!_ Never to kite after Dennis O'Toole's ice-wagon an' hang on behind,--nor see who'd get to the corner first,--nor stand on your head an' wave 'em--

"No, sirree!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Jolly, with unction, "nothin'."

"Would ever make up, you mean?" Morry sighed. He had known all the time, of course what the answer would be.

"Yep,--nothin' could."

"I thought so. That's all,--I mean, thank you. Oh yes, there's one other thing,--I've been saving it up. Did you ever hear of a--of a step-mother, Jolly? I just thought I'd ask."

The result was surprising. The telescoped legs came to view jerkily, but with haste. Jolly stumbled to his feet.

"I better be a-goin'," he muttered, thinking of empty chip-baskets, empty water-pails, undone errands,--a switch on two nails behind the kitchen door.

"Oh, wait a minute,--did you ever hear of one, Jolly?"

"You bet," gloomily, "I got one."

"Oh!--oh, I didn't know. Then," rather timidly, "perhaps--I wish you'd tell me what they're like."

"Like nothin'! n.o.body likes 'em," came with more gloom yet from the boy with legs.

"Oh!" It was almost a cry from the boy without. This was terrible.

This was a great deal terribler than he had expected.

"Would one be angry if--if your legs wouldn't go? Would it make her _very_, do you think?"

Still thinking of empty things that ought to have been filled, Jolly nodded emphatically.

"Oh!" The terror grew.

"Then one--then she--wouldn't be--be glad to see anybody, I suppose, whose legs had _never_ been?--wouldn't want to shake hands or anything, I suppose?--nor be in the same room?"

"Nope." One's legs may be kind even to the verge of agony, but how unkind one's tongue may be! Jolly's mind was busy with his own antic.i.p.ated woes; he did not know he was unkind.

"That's all,--thank you, I mean," came wearily, hopelessly, from the pillows. But Morry called the other back before he got over the threshold. There was another thing upon which he craved enlightenment. It might possibly help out.

"Are they pretty, Jolly?" he asked, wistfully.

"Are who what?" repeated the boy on the threshold, puzzled. Guilt and apprehension dull one's wits.

"Step-ones,--mothers."

_Pretty?_ When they were lean and sharp and shabby! When they kept switches on two nails behind the door,--when they wore ugly clothes pinned together! But Jolly's eye caught the wistfulness on Morry's little, peaked, white face, and a lie was born within him at the sight. In a flash he understood things. Pity came to the front and braced itself stalwartly.

"You bet they're pretty!" Jolly exclaimed, with splendid enthusiasm.

"Prettier'n anythin'! You'd oughter see mine!" (Recording Angel, make a note of it, when you jot this down, that the little face across the room was intense with wistfulness, and Jolly was looking straight that way. And remember legs.)