THE ONE THING NEEDED.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3212, 6 May 1911, Page 3

THE ONE THING NEEDED.

A SHORT STORY.

(By Clarence B. Kelland in “Munsey’s Magapine.”)

No button on Cap’n Overshort’s coat dangled perilously at the end of a loosened thread. The old sailorman was spick and span with a neatness that betokened some inspection more rigorous than that of his own- eyes. He dined upon, food not of his own cocking, from dishes not of his own washing; for, after sixty years of single loneliness, he had taken a wife.

Hew lonely he had been he never knew until lie finished his last voyage from Buffalo to Duluth, brought his vessel safely into port, resigned his command, and went home to Marine City to live out his remaining years ashore. There, established in his little house, with its conventional row of fruit tress, he made a discovery which is but- a few days younger than the world itself—that it is not good to be alone. So he had married a wife—a grey-haired, rosy-cheeked, ample wife, who lacked none of the attributes that place grandmothers among the choicest gifts l of heaven, but- who, nevertheless, had hitherto been a spinster. “I’m a goin’ to call you commodore,”

announced the cap’n, as he and his wife turned into tire yard after the celebration of their marriage. “I’m a cap’n, and there ain’t no good reason to disrate me; so ypu, bein’ my superior officer, have got to be commodore and com and this whole fleet the house and barn and chicken-coops and garden. ’Tain’t much of a fleet, commodore, but I’m more’ll glad to put you in command of it.”

“That’s nice of you, eap’n” the old

lady cooed. Then they smiled at each other ivith smiles that brushed away the years from their rotund faces.”

“D’yeu know, cap’n,” said the old

lady—now the commodore “there’s just one thing I’ve been wisliin’—that you had some grandchildren. Just one, or maybe two, to come and see us and git in our way and go playin’ around under foot would make things seem more like they ought to be. A garden with nothin’ in it but vegetables is all right, but, to my way of flunkin', cap’n ,a few flowers growin’ around in corners makes it more cheery like. That’s the way it is with children in families.”

“Ya-as,” responded the cap’ll huskily. “I ain’t never been related to no little folks- —not even an une’e to any of ’em. Sometimes I sort o’ borrow a young one for spell, and make b’lievo it’s mine; but when I’m all alone again,

things is worse’n before.” The days flew swiftly past the old couple, like telegraph poles seen from

the window of a train, carrying high out of reach the slender thioad of the years. Happy they were with the real happiness of contented years'; with the peace which conies only in,the rosy autumn of life, when the days of waiting for the closing in of winter promise comfort without dependence.

Their one sorrow —it was not a sorrow really, but a gentle regret—was that they would never know the nestling touch, the loving glance, of a petted grandchild. Of this they spoke together very often and the very speaking of little ones brightened their daj'S. “There ain’t nothin’ else I need,” the comodore whispered, as: she sat close beside the eap’n under the old maple which shaded their porch. “Just one little grandson—or granddaughter—l ain’t p’tic’lar. Just one!” “We —” The cap’n paused diffidently, and cleared his throat, as if he were half ashamed, half afraid, to put his thought into words. ‘We might pretend—sort o’ make b’lievo we got one. What d’yeu s’pose his name’d he?” “It’d be William. —after you,” murmured the commodore. “Maybe so,” answered the captain tenderly. “Maybe so. He’d be a little feller, wouldn’t he? ’But four years old, I reckon.” “Yes,” assented the commodore. “And he’d have fat little legs and blue eyes, and he could just talk enough to call us gran’ma and gran’pa. I guess maybe he’d be visitin’ us right mv.” She was able to imagine—to visualise — much more readily than her husband, at the beginning. “He’d be out there in the yard, playin’ around and gettin’ into mischief. I’ll bet anything that there little rascal is chasin’ the chickens this very minute!” The cap’n got the manner of it with surprising readiness. In this way the old people hugged to their hearts a joy that was not, just as wayfarers in a desert .look with rejoicing upon a mirage which has the outward seeming of a longed-for reality. Every day they pretended more than they had the day before, until at last little Wiliam’s presence about the house became so real that they regulated their every act with reference to him, his amusement, or his profit. They talked to him ; they talked. of him. For his pleasure they planned surprises; for his future upbringing tlioy evolved schemes. At times they

corrected him—with gentle kindness—for lie was so healthy, so abounding in life, that mischief was his natural element.

‘What d’‘yon s’pose that little William did to-day?’ the cap’n .asked his wife. “After he’d oat all the frostin’ off’n that new cake of your’n, and you’d scold him a little, he went right out in the yard and picked every green tomato off’n the vines, and was throwill’ them at Mr Jennings’s cow.”

‘I hope you wasn’t harsh with him, cap’ll,” the commodore said anxiously. “He don’t never mean no harm, you know. He’s a hoy and them mischiefs is perfectly natural to him.”

8.) it went. When evening began to darken the yard, the commodore went to the door and summoned little William to come in to bed. ' In the morning they awoke him and sent, him out to play. They even bought a high chair, which had its regular place at their table.

Once William was ill, consequent upon a feast of green apples. It was a very trying time, but careful nursing: brought him back to health, and it was good to see how cheerful his grandparents were when he was able once more to romp in the garden. He was present always; a part of their every thought was devoted to him. 11. One morning they sat together on their shaded porch, planing that little

William, should start to school in the fall 1 . That he must be an educated man, and must some day rise to the estate of captain of his own vessel, had been determined after many busy, serious sessions.

The cap’ll glanced toward the street-, his sentence stopped in mid career, and he pointed with trembling finger. “There,” he quavered, “there’s little William now—out there by the fence!” It was a fact, or seemed to be. Lit-

tle William' had materialised. Certain it was that a grimy, rolly-legged four-vear-old pressed his little stomach against the palings and looked through wonderingly at the garden as if tlieie lay the land of golden, adventure. The commodore uttered a soft little cry ,and ambled down to the gate as fast as her fc-et would carry her. ‘Good ‘mornin’, little William,” she cooed. “Gome and see your gran’ma.” The little one grasped a picket in a mud dy hand, and swung backward and forward with that indescribable half-wil-ling, half-reluctant, bearing that said ho wanted badly to come, but wasn’t just sure whether he would do it or not. “Come!” the old lady appealed again. “Gran’ilia’s got a cooky for little T\ illiam.’ This was an inducement that swept away all barriers, and chubby-legs trotted 'to the gate with alacrity. The commodore swept him up in her arms and cuddled him as it was her very right to have cuddled grandchildren these years past; and he was at home. Ihe child-heart in his recognised the grand-mother-heart in her, and he was content. _ •‘Ain’t he a ouimin’ little craft ” admired the cap’ll. ;“Come to see your cl’ gran’ma and granddad, didn t you? Goin’ to ship with us for a nice, long voyage, and there’s, a cargo of cookies in the hold!”

Then the old people played pretend ...e children. They made believe th:s was truly their grandson, who had come to stay with them lor a long, long visit —and neither of them dared to suggest that it was time to send him home.

-•Better git another cooky,’ suggested the cap’n, desiring to send his wife cut of hearing, that he might inquire of the child about his parents without breaking the spoil for her.

“Who’s your pa, little feller ” lie asked.

The child, with cunning perversity, would not reply, and by no manner of coaxing or proffer of bribes could he be made to disclose his identity. “Somebody'll come lookin’ for him,” predicted the commodore, who had at last to be called into conference. “We better keep him till they do.” That plan suited the cap’ll exactly, and he hoped the parents' might lie ling in coming.

“S’posin’,” .he hazarded with fine imagination, “nobody ever came ! Just s’posin’ they let the little toiler stay with us always!” ‘•O-o-oh!” breathed the commodore at the splendor of the thought. And nobody did come all that day, nor during the evening, and the commodore had the joy of tucking the mite into bed, while the cap’ll looked on raptly. When bo was asleep, they sat long beside the bed, watching the moonlight as it fell on the little flushed face, and speaking not at all. They had a grandson. It was a temporary grandson, they knew, but they bad him for the time—and »t was the happiest dav either had seen in all the crowded years.

“Maybe,” whispered the cap’ll drowsily, when sleep was about to close his eyes, “maybe they won’t ever come for him!” Both slept happily on the thought; but next day a passer-by saw the child. “What you folks doin’ with Len Kimball’s 'baby ?” he called, and there their dream ended. The- talked the matter over, considering it strange indeed that the father had failed to come for his child. “He must he near crazy, missin’ it all day, and all night,” guessed the eominodbre. 1 ~ “He’s got nine,and his wife’s dead, said the cap’n. “May’be ho ain’t missed this one.” Then came the insidious thought, could they not keep the child? What if the father never did miss him from his large flock, and they could just let tilings go and have him always for themselves? Neither dared put it into words. .

“We could give him a home as good as he’s got,” said the cap’n, coming very near to disclosing what was in Ins mind. “Better,” answered the. commodore, almost sharply. -After that 'they sat still or a very long time and watched the little fellow playing in the garden. ..-The cap’n rose dolefully. ■ “Guess I’d better go down to Ben s, he said shakily “We can’t go piratin’ nobody’s baby, can we “I’m goin’ too,” answered the commodore. Together, with the child, between clinging to a hand of either, they went down the' street to Leu’s.

!1 111. 0 ‘You* stay here a minute, while I run 0 ahead and cast anchor and take bear--3 in’s,” suggested the cap’n. 1 He went through Len Kimball’s rick--1 ety gate and up to the house, through a ' J drove of healthy hut not immaculate children. Len sat in the dining-room, ' with his feet in the window. 1 “Hello, aboard there!” shouted the cap’n. ' “Howdy cap’n,” responded Len. “Missed anything?’ asked the cap’n. Len thought a moment, pulled out his old silver watch, his jack-knife, and other pocket trinkets, and examined them with care. “Nope,” he said reluctantly. “I ain’t lost nothin’ that I know of.” “All your children well?” asked the cap’n, apparently changing the subject. “Fine,” non boasted. “Finest in town !” “Let’s see, how many is there?” Len scratched his head. “Wa-al, I ain’t just exactly counted ’em for a spell. Lcrnrno see, there was ton—or was it ’leven? Somehow 1 can’t keep very good track of the number of ’em. One died a year or two back, and whether there’s nine or ton left I ain’t prepared to take my Gospel oath.”. “Ain’t missed none of them the last day or two ” the cap’n asked huskily. ‘Nope,” replied carelessly. “I got one,” the cap’n blurted out, making a full confession at last. “He come yesterday and stayed all night wit bus —a cunnin’ little feller.” “Which one ” Len asked curiously. “Dunno. He wouldn’t, say.” “Fetch liim along and we’ll see. Some times I git ’em mixed up myself.” The cap’n called his wife, who, almost in tears, brought the little fellow into the house. Len looked him over carefully. “Lemme see,” he puzzled. “That there is Willie, I guess—or else it’s James. No, tain’t James, ’cause James is biggern that ; but it might ue Georgia. Now, cap’n, I’m hanged if I can toll which he is. He’s one of ’em, all right, ’cause i know his face, but which one it’s past me to state. Which one be you?” he demanded of the child. Still obstinate, the little fellow would make no response. “We come pertv near stealin’ him.” confessed the cap’n huskily. “He's sich a nice little feller!” “We sure enough did, Mr Kimball,” echoed the commodore. “The cap’n and me wants a grandchild worse’ll anyth] n g in the wo rid! ’ ’ “Wisht I c-culd spare one,” Len said absently, still eyeing the child with aroused curiosity; “but I guess I can’t give none away to-day.” ‘Course mot,breathed the eap’n and his wife in chorus. “I’m a goin’ to find cut which you be,” Leu told the child, “if I have to ■ call in the neighbors.” Then he raised hits voice. “Children!'’ he called. “Come in here!” In they flocked, and stood wide-eyed. "Which one of you is this here one?” Len demanded of them. “ ’Taint none of us,” piped a little - gil. “ ’Tany rate, it ain't none of us brothers and sisters. That there is - little 'William that come to live with us when Uncle Orve died.” 1

Wa-al, if that don't beat all!” gasped Len. “I clean forgot all about that one. It’s like this.” he explained to the cap’n. “My half-brother Orve, he died and left this here baby; and bein’ as I was the only relative, it was sent on to me, jus’ as ii I didn t have enough of my own. But I couldn t turn no baby out just cause it cluttered things up a little more, so here lie -L and here he can stay." “He ain’t your own?” quavered the commodore.

“Nope,” said Len. “You —you got a- lot without him'. ventured the enpn.

“Heaps,’ grunted Len. •T wonder—” The o'd lady spoke softly hurriedly, in slinking tones—‘l wonder if voii—maybe—wouldn’t be willin’ to—to—let cap’n a'ml me adopt tins here one that ain’t really your’n Hh f be awful good to him. Med ■■ “What?” shouted Len, dropping Ins feet to the floor with a bang. "Give away little Willie? I guess not ma’am! Why, I ain’t never had enough children around the house yet.” “I don’t believe you'd miss bun much,” ventured the cap’ll. "And >mi got such a lot of others. Don t look like the Lord was playin’ just fan to give you so many-mnd then send along this here ext-rv one!” “T’wouldn't be right noways. He s my brother’s baby, and he was feat to me to take cafe of. “But you got eight others,” said the cap’ll. ">or ma'■ be nine,” added the commodore.

“I guess numbers don’t make no difference,” Len said. “A feller can’t give away a child like he would a kitten, now, could lie?” \ " ’wouldn’t be nothin’ like that,” argued the commodore. “We’d take little William and adopt him, go’s he’d be just like our own and we’s look after him, and send him to school, and bring him up 'to be a good man. It ain’t like givin’ him away, Mr Kimball. It’s ntore in the way of pervidin’ for his future. Not that you wouldn’t do your best for him, I don’t mean that, but we could do a. heap more for him than you can, by way of eddication and sich You got to spread what- you can do among nine, and we could give it all to one. It sort o’ looks like it wasn’t right for you. to hold the little feller back.’

Len scratched his head dubiously. ‘I ain’t never 'thought of that- there p’int,” lie said. “But I guess I can’t part with him nohow.”

Oap’n and commodore saw all their hopes destroyed, their dreams broken to hits at their feet. The old lady stifled a sob and turned hastily away.' The cap’n, no less affected, followed heavily after her. Somehow the little homo lacked its former cheerfulnes as they turned in at the gate. It was less inviting, less comfortable to contemplate. The old people, too, had left something behind them. Perhaps it was some of the springiness of their step, j?ame of the youthfulness that had stayed so kindly by them. Slowly, almost unwillingly, they entered, and then sat close together, their hands touching, as if they feared to bo left alone, as if each must have the support ef the other Long hours passed, and they exchanged no word. Their grief was silent, deep-running. Outside, the shadow of the big tree reached out toward the fence, climbed it. and seemingly disappeared in the deeper shades which dropped down all about the house Still the commodore and the cap’n sat side by side and nursed their sorrow in the darkness.

A knock clamored on the front door, and they answered it together, because neither would be left alone. There stood Len Kimball, peering in blinkingly, and little William nestled in bis arms. “Evenin’,” stammered Len. “I got to thinkin’ about what you said, and somehow it got to look to me like ’twas my duty to bring this here little feller to you. I got- to do my best for him, an T reckon this here is my best.” Putting the child on its feet, he gently pushed it across the threshold, and, turning, ran off into the night. 'flie cap’n locked at the commodore in dumb happiness. She was crying softly into the child’s feathery hair. The old man bent tenderly over them and kissed his wife on the c-Leek. •‘Mother,” he said, and then repeated it, because the sound of it was sweet in his ear. “Mother, there ain’t nothin’ more to wish for, is “Not a single thing—father!” replied the commodore happily.