FOLLOWING Brick Simpson’s directions, they came into Union Street, and without further mishap gained the Hill. From the brow they looked down into the Pit, whence arose that steady, indefinable hum which comes from crowded human places.
“I ’ll never go down there again, not as long as I live,” Fred said with a great deal of savagery in his voice. “I wonder what became of the fireman.”
“We ’re lucky to get back with whole skins,” Joe cheered them philosophically.
“I guess we left our share, and you more than yours,” laughed Charley.
“Yes,” Joe answered. “And I ’ve got more trouble to face when I get home. Good night, fellows.”
As he expected, the door on the side porch was locked, and he went around to the dining-room and entered like a burglar through a window. As he crossed the wide hall, walking softly toward the stairs, his father came out of the library. The surprise was mutual, and each halted aghast.
Joe felt a hysterical desire to laugh, for he thought that he knew precisely how he looked. In reality he looked far worse than he imagined. What Mr. Bronson saw was a boy with hat and coat covered with dirt, his whole face smeared with the stains of conflict, and, in particular, a badly swollen nose, a bruised eyebrow, a cut and swollen lip, a scratched cheek, knuckles still bleeding, and a shirt torn open from throat to waist.
“What does this mean, sir?” Mr. Bronson finally managed to articulate.
Joe stood speechless. How could he tell, in one brief sentence, all the whole night’s happenings?—for all that must be included in the explanation of what his luckless disarray meant.
“Have you lost your tongue?” Mr. Bronson demanded with an appearance of impatience.
“I ’ve—I ’ve—”
“Yes, yes,” his father encouraged.
“I ’ve—well, I ’ve been down in the Pit,” Joe succeeded in blurting out.
“I must confess that you look like it—very much like it indeed.” Mr. Bronson spoke severely, but if ever by great effort he conquered a smile, that was the time. “I presume,” he went on, “that you do not refer to the abiding-place of sinners, but rather to some definite locality in San Francisco. Am I right?”
Joe swept his arm in a descending gesture toward Union Street, and said: “Down there, sir.”
“And who gave it that name?”
“I did,” Joe answered, as though confessing to a specified crime.
“It ’s most appropriate, I ’m sure, and denotes imagination. It could n’t really be bettered. You must do well at school, sir, with your English.”
This did not increase Joe’s happiness, for English was the only study of which he did not have to feel ashamed.
And, while he stood thus a silent picture of misery and disgrace, Mr. Bronson looked upon him through the eyes of his own boyhood with an understanding which Joe could not have believed possible.
“However, what you need just now is not a discourse, but a bath and court-plaster and witch-hazel and cold-water bandages,” Mr. Bronson said; “so to bed with you. You ’ll need all the sleep you can get, and you ’ll feel stiff and sore to-morrow morning, I promise you.”
The clock struck one as Joe pulled the bedclothes around him; and the next he knew he was being worried by a soft, insistent rapping, which seemed to continue through several centuries, until at last, unable to endure it longer, he opened his eyes and sat up.
The day was streaming in through the window—bright and sunshiny day. He stretched his arms to yawn; but a shooting pain darted through all the muscles, and his arms came down more rapidly than they had gone up. He looked at them with a bewildered stare, till suddenly the events of the night rushed in upon him, and he groaned.
The rapping still persisted, and he cried: “Yes, I hear. What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock,” Bessie’s voice came to him through the door. “Eight o’clock, and you ’ll have to hurry if you don’t want to be late for school.”
“Goodness!” He sprang out of bed precipitately, groaned with the pain from all his stiff muscles, and collapsed slowly and carefully on a chair. “Why did n’t you call me sooner?” he growled.
“Father said to let you sleep.”
Joe groaned again, in another fashion Then his history-book caught his eye, and he groaned yet again and in still another fashion.
“All right,” he called. “Go on. I ’ll be down in a jiffy.”
He did come down in fairly brief order; but if Bessie had watched him descend the stairs she would have been astounded at the remarkable caution he observed and at the twinges of pain that every now and then contorted his face. As it was, when she came upon him in the dining-room she uttered a frightened cry and ran over to him.
“What ’s the matter, Joe?” she asked tremulously. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” he grunted, putting sugar on his porridge.
“But surely—” she began.
“Please don’t bother me,” he interrupted. “I ’m late, and I want to eat my breakfast.”
And just then Mrs. Bronson caught Bessie’s eye, and that young lady, still mystified, made haste to withdraw herself.
Joe was thankful to his mother for that, and thankful that she refrained from remarking upon his appearance. Father had told her; that was one thing sure. He could trust her not to worry him; it was never her way.
And, meditating in this way, he hurried through with his solitary breakfast, vaguely conscious in an uncomfortable way that his mother was fluttering anxiously about him. Tender as she always was, he noticed that she kissed him with unusual tenderness as he started out with his books swinging at the end of a strap; and he also noticed, as he turned the corner, that she was still looking after him through the window.
But of more vital importance than that, to him, was his stiffness and soreness. As he walked along, each step was an effort and a torment. Severely as the reflected sunlight from the cement sidewalk hurt his bruised eye, and severely as his various wounds pained him, still more severely did he suffer from his muscles and joints. He had never imagined such stiffness. Each individual muscle in his whole body protested when called upon to move. His fingers were badly swollen, and it was agony to clasp and unclasp them; while his arms were sore from wrist to elbow. This, he said to himself, was caused by the many blows which he had warded off from his face and body. He wondered if Brick Simpson was in similar plight, and the thought of their mutual misery made him feel a certain kinship for that redoubtable young ruffian.
When he entered the school-yard he quickly became aware that he was the center of attraction for all eyes. The boys crowded around in an awe-stricken way, and even his classmates and those with whom he was well acquainted looked at him with a certain respect he had never seen before.