reflection that Mrs. Porter's system could not be definitely taxed with
any harmful results. But his mind was never easy. Every day found him
still nervously on the alert for symptoms.
Bill soothed him now by answering 'No' in a very decided voice. All
well so far, but it had been an anxious moment.
It seemed incredible to Kirk that the life he was leading should not in
time turn the child into a whimpering bundle of nerves. His
conversations with Bill were, as a result, a sort of spiritual parallel
to the daily taking of his temperature with the thermometer. Sooner or
later he always led the talk round to some point where Bill must make a
definite pronouncement which would show whether or not the insidious
decay had begun to set in.
So far all appeared to be well. In earlier conversations Bill, subtly
questioned, had stoutly maintained that he was not afraid of Indians,
dogs, pirates, mice, cows, June-bugs, or noises in the dark. He had
even gone so far as to state that if an Indian chief found his way into
the nursery he, Bill, would chop his head off. The most exacting father
could not have asked more. And yet Kirk was not satisfied: he remained
uneasy.
It so happened that this afternoon Bill, who had had hitherto to
maintain his reputation for intrepidity entirely by verbal statements,
was afforded an opportunity of providing a practical demonstration that
his heart was in the right place. The game he was playing with the
bricks was one that involved a certain amount of running about with a
puffing accompaniment of a vaguely equine nature. And while performing
this part of the programme he chanced to trip. He hesitated for a
moment, as if uncertain whether to fall or remain standing; then did
the former with a most emphatic bump.
He scrambled up, stood looking at Kirk with a twitching lip, then gave
a great gulp, and resumed his trotting. The whole exhibition of
indomitable heroism was over in half a minute, and he did not even
bother to wait for applause.
The effect of the incident on Kirk was magical. He was in the position
of an earnest worshipper who, tortured with doubts, has prayed for a
sign. This was a revelation. A million anti-Indian statements, however
resolute, were nothing to this.
This was the real thing. Before his eyes this super-child of his had
fallen in a manner which might quite reasonably have led to tears;
which would, Kirk felt sure, have produced bellows of anguish from
every other child in America. And what had happened? Not a moan. No,
sir, not one solitary cry. Just a gulp which you had to strain your
ears to hear, and which, at that, might have been a mere taking-in of
breath such as every athlete must do, and all was over.
This child of his was the real thing. It had been proved beyond
possibility of criticism.
There are moments when a man on parole forgets his promise. All thought
of rules and prohibitions went from Kirk. He rose from his seat,
grabbed his son with both hands, and hugged him. We cannot even begin
to estimate the number of bacilli which must have rushed, whooping with
