Lo, Michael! | Page 8

head and looked upon the boy to whom he felt he owed a debt which he could never repay.
He recognized the child as a representative of that great unwashed throng of humanity who were his natural enemies, because by their oppression and by stepping upon their rights when it suited his convenience, he had risen to where he now stood, and was able to maintain his position. He had no special feeling for them, any of them, more than if they had been a pack of wolves whose fangs he must keep clear of, and whose hides he must get as soon as convenient; but this boy was different! This spirit-child with the form of Apollo, the beauty of Adonis, and the courage of a hero! Could he have come from the hotbeds of sin and corruption? It could not be! Sure there must be some mistake. He must be of good birth. Enquiry must be made. Had anyone asked the child's name and where he lived?
Then, as if in answer to his thought, the dark blue eyes suddenly opened. He found them looking at him, and started as he realized it, as if a picture on which he gazed had suddenly turned out to be alive. And yet, for the instant, he could not summon words, but stood meeting that steady searching gaze of the child, penetrating, questioning, as if the eyes would see and understand the very foundation principles on which the man's life rested. The man felt it, and had the sensation of hastily looking at his own motives in the light of this child's look. Would his life bear that burning appealing glance?
Then, unexpectedly the child's face lit up with his wonderful smile. He had decided to trust the man.
Never before in all his proud and varied experience had Delevan Endicott encountered a challenge like that. It beat through him like a mighty army and took his heart by storm, it flashed into his eyes and dazzled him. It was the challenge of childhood to the fatherhood of the man. With a strange new impulse the man accepted it, and struggling to find words, could only answer with a smile.
A good deal passed between them before any words were spoken at all, a good deal that the boy never forgot, and that the man liked to turn back to in his moments of self-reproach, for somehow that boy's eyes called forth the best that was in him, and made him ashamed of other things.
"Boy, who is your father?" at last asked the man huskily. He almost dreaded to find another father owning a noble boy like this--and such a father as he would be if it were true that he was only a street gamin.
The boy still smiled, but a wistfulness came into his eyes. He slowly shook his head.
"Dead, is he?" asked the man more as if thinking aloud. But the boy shook his head again.
"No, no father," he answered simply.
"Oh," said the man, and a lump gathered in his throat. "Your mother?"
"No mother, never!" came the solemn answer. It seemed that he scarcely felt that either of these were deep lacks in his assets. Very likely fathers and mothers were not on the average desirable kindred in the neighborhood from which he came. The man reflected and tried again.
"Who are your folks? They'll be worried about you. We ought to send them word you're doing well?"
The boy looked amazed, then a laugh rippled out.
"No folks," he gurgled, "on'y jest de kids."
"Your brothers and sisters?" asked Endicott puzzled.
"None o' dem," said Mikky. "Buck an' me're pards. We fights fer de other kids."
"Don't you know it's wrong to fight?"
Mikky stared.
Endicott tried to think of something to add to his little moral homily, but somehow could not.
"It's very wrong to fight," he reiterated lamely.
The boy's cherub mouth settled into firm lines.
"It's wronger not to, when de little kids is gettin' hurt, an' de big fellers what ought ter work is stole away they bread, an' they's hungry."
It was an entirely new proposition. It was the challenge of the poor against the rich, of the weak against the strong, and from the lips of a mere babe. The man wondered and answered not.
"I'd fight fer your little kid!" declared the young logician. He seemed to know by instinct that this was the father of his baby.
Ah, now he had touched the responsive chord. The father's face lit up. He understood. Yes, it was right to fight for his baby girl, his little Starr, his one treasure, and this boy had done it, given his life freely. Was that like fighting for those other unloved, uncared-for, hungry darlings? Were they then dear children, too, of somebody, of God, if nobody else? The boy's eyes were telling him plainly in