Old Mr. Wiley | Page 4

under the concealing sheet, lips a-quiver, eyes humid.
Miss Beaver's lips compressed. He called his mother "She" as if she
were an outsider....
Frank Wiley III stood for a moment looking at his son, then let himself
gently down on the edge of the bed, laying one big palm on the little
chap's hot forehead. He did not speak, just sat and stroked the fevered
brow with tenderness. On his face a dark look brooded. His eyes were
absent, unhappy.
"Daddy, why couldn't I have just a little puppy of my own?"
The father replied with obvious effort.
"You know, Frankie, we have one small dog already," said he with
forced lightness.
"Oh! Kiki!"
"Couldn't you manage to make friends with Kiki?"
"She doesn't really want Kiki to like me, Daddy." (Wise beyond his
years, marvelled Miss Beaver.) "Kiki doesn't really like little boys."
"Oh, my God, Frankie, don't go to crying again! Don't you see that
Daddy can't quarrel with Mother over a dog? Try to get well, old man,
and we'll see then what we can do. How about a pony, son?"
The little boy disappeared under the sheet, refusing to reply. Miss
Beaver could not bear his convulsive, hardly-controlled sobs, and
turned an accusing face upon Frank Wiley III.
"Is it possible," she asked icily, "that Frank's mother would actually

refuse him so small a thing as a puppy, if it meant the merest chance of
his getting better?"
The face turned to hers was gloomy, the voice impatient.
"Oh, good God! Was ever a man in such a damnable situation? My dear
Miss Beaver, ask the doctor to tell you how much influence I have in
this household, before you blame me for not taking a firm stand with a
woman as nervous and temperamental as Mrs. Wiley. I'd give my life
willingly to bring my boy back to health but unhappily I'm not like the
founders of our family. Some day I'll show you our family album.
You'll find it easy to trace the strong resemblance Frankie has to his
forebears. Its the damnably high spirit he gets from them that is so
stubbornly killing him now."
* * * * *
He rose, wheeled about and went to the door. Paused. Still with that
brooding dark look on his face he turned to her again.
"If my death would make it any easier for Frank, I wouldn't hesitate a
moment. I'm a failure. It wouldn't matter. But I feel that by living and
watching over him I'm standing between my boy's development as an
individual, and the subtlest, softest peril that could possibly threaten
him. I would rather he died, if he cannot bring about what he wills for
his own development. As for me, I ... I am a dead man walking futilely
among the living."
With that, he swung out of the room.
Miss Beaver knelt by the boy's bed, murmuring persuasively to him as
she strove to make him check his hysterical sobs.
"Frankie, you really must stop crying. You're too big a chap to cry and
it only makes you worse. If you're a good boy to-day and eat your food,
I'll let your grandfather bring the little dog tonight," she promised
rashly.

The sheet turned down and Frank's reddened face peered at her
plaintively.
"That was my great-grandfather," he assured her gravely.
"Well, great or great-great, it's all the same," she conceded
good-humoredly.
"Do you really think he'll bring Spot tonight?"
"Of course he will. But you must eat your meals, take a long nap, and
stop crying."
"Oh, I promise!" the boy cried eagerly.
The day, Miss Beaver was told later, was uneventful. She had remained
with the day nurse until Doctor Parris had made his visit. The doctor
had been much pleased to find his small patient in good spirits and
congratulated himself upon having put Miss Beaver on the case.
"If our young friend continues to improve like this, Miss Beaver," he
joked, "we'll have him playing football within a month." He lowered
his voice for her ear only. "Has anything particular come under your
notice that might account for this agreeable change?"
Miss Beaver's forehead wrinkled slightly. She regarded the doctor from
narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
"Tell me, Doctor Parris, if it isn't asking too much, why Mr. Wiley is a
Man-Afraid-of-his-Wife?"
The doctor could not repress an involuntary chuckle.
"Come now, nurse, don't you think you're asking rather a good deal?"
"No, I don't," retorted Miss Beaver shortly. "Nor do you think so, either.
What I'm trying to get at is, why Mr. Wiley lets Mrs. Wiley prevent
him from giving Frank a puppy that he wants?"

The doctor regarded her thoughtfully.
"So it's a pup the boy wants. Ha, hum!" he uttered.
"I'm asking you," she repeated