THE JUGGLER

New Zealand Tablet, 24 December 1908, Page 27

THE JUGGLER

Behind the great window of the luxurious club-house a man looked out at the stream of humanity that passed in two hurrying currents before him. He was comfortable in the big easy chair, and he felt a very slight twinge of pity for these rustling persons. Why did these throngs seem in a hurry, and why did they all carry burdensome parcels. The bundles meant that Christmas Day was near. There were gifts in those parcels, foolish gifts, no doubt, for people who would throw them a glance and cast them aside. There was a man actually pushing his way through the crowd with a. tree on his shoulder — a Christmas tree, of course. How very childish it all seemed. ; A servant came into the room and turned on the lights. The man at the window looked around. ■ Not many of the members here to-night, Robert?'

' No, sir. It's nearing Christmas, sir. Quite a number of the gentlemen go out of town.' ' True. I had forgotten.' Another footfall caught his ear. ' Ah, Durham !' . The newcomer dropped into an easy chair. 'Began to think I had the club all to myself,' he said. ' Painfully dull, isn't it ?' 'Yes. Evidently a general oxodus. Why are you- left behind?' '. I'm a man without a home just now. My people are in> England, you know. For twenty-seven years' my wife and I have eaten our Christmas dinner together, 'and I'm blue when I think of dining without her. You don't understand that, do you ?' ' 'No,' the man at the window replied; 'I don't.' 'Didn't give me credit for so much sentiment, perhaps !' . : 'To tell you the truth,' said the man at the window, ' it surprises me.' ' I'm quite sure I'm not ashamed of it,'- laughed Durham. 'Money grubbing hasn't entirely ossified ( me: But why are you lingering here, Minturn? No home?' The man at the window laughed. 'I call this a pretty comfortable home,' ho answered.

The other man shook Kis head. '." ■.'.'" 'Sorry for you,' he said. 'If my people were home, I'd be only too glad to invite you up to dinner. We manage to have a pretty icily time at Christmas. But, there, I want to get a letter off. See you this evening.' • The man at the window stared after him as lie moved away. Then he turned and looked at the darkened street, and, as he looked, the scene seemed ,to slowly change. The tall buildings faded away, and in their places arose hilly slopes with clumps of trees and zigzag fences, and a village of white houses, with the steeple of a church, and- with n playground along the bank of a brawling creek. Arid as he. listened he could hear the laugh of the children at play, and a little later, the bell in the distant steeple rang out in a most familiar way! Suddenly he straightened up and. rubbed his eyes. 'Asleep and. dreaming,', he muttered,- as he rose. 'Must go and order niy dinner. Asleep and dreaming. '. That night George Minturn sat on the edge of his bed for some time. The little village nestling among the hills was before him again. This time his thoughts went back t° a certain old-fashioned house, the. house he had called home so. long ago. '/•'How familiar it looked ! There was the very window above the porch— the window of his room— through which he had climbed when be ran away that Juiie night so long' ago. ■•"'.He wondered now why he had never wanted to go hack. His father had been hard and unsympathetic. He was- a- narrow man, with strong prejudices. But there was -: his. mother. He drew his breath sharply. ,;/ There were few passengers on the. single coach of the morning • train that stopped at Ellsworth. One of these passengers was George Minturn. He looked about him' curiously as he. stenoed from the car. A neat little station had taken the place of the ramshackle building he remembered so well. How changed everything seemed as he slowly strolled up the main street. Presently he reached the venerable Green Tree Inn." A stout man greeted him. 'You're pretty well acquainted here, I fancy?' George inquired. y^'y.-'}^:. •'-'•" V'>Bbut' as well as; . anybody, I reckon,' the stout man replied. .' I grew up here.', x > ;,.... '•'•Then you may know a family by the name of Min-tu-rii?'" •''- • "Tain't. much of a family,' the stout man replied. • Just Uncle Simeon and Aunt Emily. That's what the neighbors call 'em. They've got a son knockin' 'round somewhere, but he ain't likely to turn un.' Pie gave a little start. ■..*-'. ■ Mebby yon come from him?' ''..; ' Maybe I do,' replied the stranger. . ,'< Not dead, is he?' * ' He wasn't when I saw him last.' ' Well, you tell him when you see him again that his folks ain't prosperin' as well as he'd like to have 'em mebby.' ' . 'Why, what's wrong?' 'Pinched for money — that's the main thing. The old man's gettin' pretty blind, too.' •But why should they be pinched for money?' ' Old man had a younger In-other who wasn't much good, an' he had a son that got into trouble,, and the old man helped him out of it an' helped his family— and it took quite a chunk of money. There's somethin' owin' on the old home, too., an' I heard they was nressin' the old man for it.' 'Who knows about this indebtedness?' ' Jim Luck, up at the First National. He's the cashier and he knows 'bout pretty much everything.' George Minturn was detained in the bank for nearly an hour. There was a telegram to send to his own bank in the city, and there were other details to arrange. 'By the way, Mr. Luck,' he said, as he turned to leave, ' can you tell me where I can get an old suit of clothes? I'vd an idea thrt I'd like to do a little masquerading.' Lie cashier stared at him a moment. Then he smiled. - ' Nothing quite so tattered as the prodigal's outfit?' he asked. The stranger shook his head. ' Not as bad as that,' he answered. ' Something suggestive of a wanderer whose appearance might arouse a little sympathy.' '.1 have an old hunting suit hanging un in my private room here,' said the cashier. 'Perhaps that will do.' A half -hour, later a shabby man of middle age tapped l'fditly on the door of. a modest home. A gentle faced old lady looked at, the stranger with a kindly smile. • IVWIfI~V spH the phahhv man as he-n-uii'kly pulled, off his soft hat. 'I'm a little down on my luck and a little blue, and to-morrow's Christmas, and I thought maybe you could let me stay here all night. I've got enough left to

payiypu for it,; but I don't want to go to; a' hotel— -I r want to be somewhere that's more like home.' ' Come in,' said the old lady. An old man was sitting by the window with a book oii his kness. He looked around as the newcomer entered. .'Father,' caid the old lady, 'here's a stranger who cays he's homesick and wants to know if we'll let him stay hereto-night and Christmas.' ■- - ' It's just as you say, Emily,' responded the old man. lie took the seat she pointed out, and did his .best to interact them. He told of the places he had visited, of his ocean voyage, of" lire in the mines and on the plains. The eld lady looked at him beamingly. ' It's like opening the door to i.ie great outside world/ she said. 'We are quite dull here, and dur Christmas would have' been a lonely one. And it's really a double holiday with us. It's our golden wedding anniversary. We were married very young. He was twenty and I was seventeen.' ' Madam,' said the stranger, suddenly, ' would it cloud my welcome if I told you I- was a showman— a juggler?' She looked at him earnestly. Then she turned to the old man, 'He has an honest face,' she said. 'It will make no. difference what his calling is, will it, father?' 'Not at Christmas time,' repeated the eld man in a tromulous voice. ' Thank you,' said the stranger. 'And now you must let me stand my share of the Christmas feast. I told you that I had a little roiret iim_r. left. 1 was, wise eiioufi.i' to save a trifle, so that when the company broke uo I wasn't stranded with the others.' 'We would rather consider you as our guest,' said the old lady with a gentle dignity. 'We are plain people, and our means are quite limited, but you are welcome the best we have.' ' You will let me have my way,' said the stranger. ' Otherwise I should feel like an intruder. I think I knoiv what will be wanted. Leave that to me. I must not forget that Christmas is not only Christmas, hut your goiden wedding day as well.' The old lady's face brightened. . ' Yes,' she said, ' Simeon brought me here fifty years ago. Here our son was born.' The stranger arose. 'If I am to do any Christmas buying I'd- better do it now,' he said in his cheeriest way. 'The afternoon is almost gone.' * I ■ - When he returned he brought with him a heavily^ laden basket, and in one pocket of his overcoat a chamois skin bag held something that tinkled musically. ' I knew you'd come back,' said the old lady. ' Father had his doubts.' ..'•-.■•' ' Why, of course, I intended to come hack,' said the stranger; ' I wouldn't miss this treat for— for a good deal.' That night George Minturn slept in the room that was his when he was a boy. Next morning he awoke early and surprised himself anew by the zeal with which he entered into preparations for the feast. He split wood, he weni for v.e milk, he chopped cabbage, he ground coffee. And just before the dinner was ready to serve -he retreated to his room and changed his clothes and came down looking so trim and neat that the old lady's eyes opened very wide. 'And now,' he cried, 'I want to nrove to you that my claim to being a juggler has some foundation. Will you both kindly leave the room for a moment and let me add the finishing touches to the table.' Wonderingly, they left him alone, but it was only a few moments. ' Quite ready,' he cried. ' Come in.' ' Now,' he added, ' I pass my invisible wand above the table thus to ask tne spirit of this blessed day to descend upon it.' They bowed their heads as if this were a grace, and then the old man suddenly started. 'Why, what is this?' he cried in his tremulous voice 'It was beneath my plate. Why, they are gold coins! Look, mother!' 'Why not?' cried the stranger. 'I told you I was a juggler. It's your golden wedding, remember.' There were gold coins everywhere. Beneath the saucers, under the cream jug, they glistened and clinked and rolled. And the fading eyes of the old man as he stooped above this pinning treasure caundit sight of a folded paper beneath the biggest platter. He drew it forth and held it close to his eyes. 'Why, mother,' he cried again, 'this is the discharge of our indebtedness — the old home is ours again.' The eyes of the gentle old lady turned toward the smiling stranger, and her. gaze was a troubled one. ' Once more,' he cried, but. now his voice shook a Ititle, 'I move the invisible wand above my head, and, behold! the juggler disappears, and this is your son George come home again!'-