A Fool There Was | Page 5

a retentive memory. In his classes he assumed a
position of about eighth from the fore; and he maintained it with but
little fluctuation. In the out-of-door sports of small boys, he was usually
first--that is, when Tom Blake wasn't. When Tom Blake was, Jack
Schuyler was second.
He was a sturdy boy, active, quick, strong of limb and of body. He had
earnest, serious eyes of gray-blue, like those of his father. His mouth
and chin were delicate, like his mother's. And he was thoughtful, rather
than impulsive.
Tom Blake, on the other hand, was impulsive rather than thoughtful.
He had dark eyes and ruddy cheeks; and, at the age of nine, he had
learned to walk on his hands in a manner that caused acute envy to
rankle in the bosom of every boy in the neighborhood. Also, as is most
unusual among boys of whatever station, color or instinct, he was
self-sacrificing, and more than generous, and loyal to a fault.
Kathryn Blair was all that might have been expected of a daughter of
her father and mother. Had you known them, it were difficult to
describe further. You have been told that she was lithe, and dainty and
very pretty. And she was feminine, very, and yet not unhoydenish; for

she played much with Jack Schuyler and Tom Blake. She was natural,
and unaffected, and whole-souled and buoyant, quick to laughter, quick
to tears, with an inexhaustible fund of merriment, and of sympathy.
Of an afternoon, in early December, they lay, these three young
animals, sprawling upon the great room in Blake's house--the room that
had been made for play. The gentle rays of the early-setting sun
streamed in through the broad windows upon a tumbled heap of
discarded playthings, and upon a floor strewn with that which might
have appeared to be drifting snow but which in reality was feathers; for
there had been a fierce pillow fight; and one of the pillows, under the
pressure of rolling little bodies, had burst. Its shrunken shape lay in a
far corner of the room, rumpled, empty, a husk of the plump thing that
it had been but a short time before.
Kathryn Blair, with slender, stockinged legs thrust out before her, was
picking from the tangled masses of her gold-brown hair little clinging
bits of down. Tom Blake, beside her lay flat upon his back; and by him,
was Jack Schuyler, his head resting upon the heaving diaphragm of the
other.
At length Jack Schuyler sat up, looking about him.
"Phew!" he whistled. "It looks like a snowslide.... We'll catch it now!"
Tom Blake rolled over on his stomach. He shook his head.
"Don't worry about that," he said. "Dad won't care, nor mother....
Besides, you're my guests, you know.... What shall we do now?"
Kathryn Blair said:
"I want to get these feathers off first. They stick terribly.... Every time I
think I've got hold of one, I find it's a hair." She shifted, so that her
back was toward Tom Blake. "Help me, Tom," she commanded.
Obediently he rose to his knees. Resting his left hand upon her shoulder,
he plucked, with clumsy masculine fingers at the bits of white that

nestled in her hair.... She gave a little cry.
"Ouch! That hurts, Tom! I guess I'd better wait until I get home and
have Harris do it. Harris isn't pretty, but she's awfully good; and she
doesn't fuss a bit" ... She turned around, suddenly, violet eyes wide with
excitement. "Oh! I forgot to tell you!" she cried. "Doctor DeLancey
said that maybe he'd bring me a baby brother today!"
Tom Blake and Jack Schuyler both turned to her.
"He did!" they cried almost together.
She nodded, profoundly.
"Yes," she said. "That's why they sent me over here to get all mussed
up with feathers. You know baby brothers are bashful. Dr. DeLancey
told me all about it. They like to be all alone in the house with their
mothers, so that they can get acquainted."
Jack Schuyler rose up on his elbows.
"I know a boy," he said, "that was promised a baby brother and all he
got was a sister.... I don't think that was square, do you?"
Tom Blake looked out the window, thoughtfully.
"I don't know," he remarked at length, judicially. "It might not have
been the doctor's fault. Sometimes they get 'em mixed, I guess.... And
anyhow, sisters aren't so bad. I wish I had one right now--one like you,
Kathryn." He turned on her eyes in which were the frank liking and
admiration of boyhood.
She tossed the tumbled braids of her hair back over her shoulders.
"I'd rather be a boy, myself," she said. "They don't have to wear dresses
and things. And people don't give them dolls