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  “Oh!”

  “Yes, he certainly did. I can remember those times well,” she said with a sigh, as she held a pair of his pants in her two hands, and forgot she was holding them. “Yes, I was just married, and Uncle Henry was just starting to get along. Yet I knew he’d get along. I knew from the beginning, Luke. If you want to grow up and get along and learn how to handle people, you just keep your eye on your uncle.”

  “Yes, that’s what my father said,” he agreed, frowning doubtfully.

  “Oh, he knew. Your father knew he was giving you splendid advice, Luke. And you’ll learn too.”

  “But, Aunt Helen . . .”

  “What, Luke?”

  “Just what is it I’m to learn from Uncle Henry?”

  “Why, that’s a funny question,” she said in astonishment. “Doesn’t somebody have to show a boy how to live in this world?” Her faith in her husband was so splendid that it had never occurred to her that he wouldn’t be able to arrange Luke’s life for him as he had arranged her life for her. She had an easy comfortable life. Everything was always in the right place. With Uncle Henry around she never had to sit down and worry about which places were the right places. Having no children of her own she had wondered if having a boy in the house might upset her a little, but Uncle Henry had assured her that Luke would adjust himself perfectly to their ways and it didn’t occur to her to doubt his word. “What are these?” she asked, remembering she was holding his pants in her hands. “Oh, yes, your pants.” But suddenly she sniffed and grew concerned. “I believe I smell the roast. Oh, dear,” she cried. “I put it in the oven before I went to the station.”

  Hurrying down to her kitchen with Luke following her, she opened the oven, drew out the pan and stuck a fork in the beef with a loving concern. “Uncle Henry can’t stand it if the roast is cooked too much,” she explained. “Thank heavens it isn’t overdone. You go out and look around, Luke.”

  When he went out Luke was surprised to find that the dog was waiting at the foot of the steps. The dog was not sleeping or resting there; he was really waiting. “Come on, boy,” Luke said, and the dog trailed after him with a slow ambling gait.

  First, they stood at the edge of the millpond gazing toward the bush where, according to Aunt Helen, Luke’s father had often hunted with Uncle Henry, and the bush looked dark and cool and he began to rub his hand through his hair, frowning and trying to understand why he felt such a compulsion to plunge into the bush at once. The impulse troubled him. But gradually the whine of the saw hacking through logs began to distract him, for the sound, like an agonized shriek which he had never heard before, rose and died and rose again, and he went closer to the entrance of the mill. He wanted to see without being seen, and he stopped by a small window near the door. All around the entrance was sawdust spreading out like a gold cloth, and when he walked on this sawdust it was like walking noiselessly on a thick golden carpet.

  While Luke stood on his toes trying to look in the window, the dog flopped down on the sawdust about ten feet away from him and waited.

  Then an elderly man, in blue overalls, with coarse gray hair, a heavy gray unevenly clipped beard and a slow shuffling gait, came out of the mill carrying a long two by four scantling. He was Sam Carter, who had worked for Uncle Henry for ten years without missing a day. He lived alone in a roughcast cottage a half mile along the road to town and never talked with his neighbors and never went anywhere in the company of another man. He had never been married, never drank, never spent much money, needed little to live on. He was an excellent workman but no one had ever heard him laugh out loud. He was not an unhappy man, but the only kind of happiness he had ever known came from doing exactly what he was told to do.

  In Sam Carter’s face there was something heavy, slow and dull. It was a deeply tanned impassive face incapable of showing any emotion. The eyes were deep-set, old and wrathful with an expression of resignation that never changed.

  Luke, who had never seen such a man, gaped at him as if wondering where he had come from and watched him carrying the scantling, stopping a little, and shifting the weight of the scantling in his thick brown hands. As Sam made a turn he did not see the dog and his boot touched his tail; with a yelp the collie jumped up.

  Then Sam turned back and spat and kicked mechanically at the dog as if it wasn’t very important whether the heavy boot was buried in the dog’s ribs, or whether the boot missed the dog, and so the thick boot only grazed Dan’s flank as he swerved away.

  “Hey!” Luke cried indignantly. “Don’t do that.”

  “Uh?” said Sam.

  “That’s my Uncle Henry’s dog,” Luke said sharply.

  “Uh, yeah,” Sam mumbled. Neither abashed nor angry nor apologetic, he stared at the boy with the fair hair and the candid blue eyes which were now so angry. He seemed to be letting a picture of the boy form in his mind, and yet he still did not seem to be completely aware that the boy was there. After a moment’s pondering he decided that nothing had been said or nothing important enough had happened to compel his recognition of the fact that the boy was there. So he turned away and tramped heavily along the path with his scantling.

  “Who does he think he is around here?” Luke whispered to Dan. “Wait till Uncle Henry hears that guy kicked at you.” His fists were clenched and his heart was pounding. But with a flash of insight he thought, “It was the way he kicked at him. As if it wasn’t important, as if Dan had no right to be around here getting in the way. A man like that working for Uncle Henry wouldn’t kick Uncle Henry’s dog if he knew the dog was important to Uncle Henry.” And this thought saddened him.

  Old Sam Carter, returning with the same shuffling stride, still looking at Luke, yet way beyond him and still giving no recognition to the fact that Luke was there, turned into the mill. Sam’s vast, calm, slow imperviousness frightened him. It had all happened quickly, it was only a little thing, but now Luke understood that Dan had no importance around the mill. Even the workmen understood that Uncle Henry was no longer concerned about what happened to the dog.

  “Come here, Dan,” he said, and bending down he began to stroke the dog’s head gently. “Don’t you worry, Dan,” he said. “You’re my pal, understand?”

  But then there was one slow whine from the mill as the saws stopped whirling and a sudden astonishing silence overwhelmed the mill, the river and the woods. This silence was finally broken by the voices of the men quitting work. And Uncle Henry himself came striding out of the mill.

  He was a big burly man weighing more than two hundred and thirty pounds and he had a rough-skinned, brick-colored face. On his head was a straw hat pushed well back, in his mouth an unlighted cigar and he had on a spotlessly clean shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His brown forearms were mottled with freckles. He wore a dark blue tie. An expensive wristwatch was around his left wrist. And Luke looked up at him with a shy apprehensiveness, for this was the man from whom his father was expecting him to learn so much.

  “Hello there, my boy,” Uncle Henry called out heartily. “Why didn’t you come right in and see me?”

  “I thought you might be busy,” Luke said shyly.

  “Sure, I was busy, Luke,” Uncle Henry said, putting his big hand on Luke’s shoulder and leading him along with him toward the house. “But you could have been busy with me. Never mind. I can see you’ve been looking around, getting the lay of the land. Well, that’s the stuff.” He was jolly and friendly, his manner straightforward, his voice rich, deep and hearty. He was completely at ease. But Luke, who was accustomed to his father’s lazy, indirect gentleness and slow smile couldn’t quite get used to Uncle Henry.

  “What do you say if we wash up together?” Uncle Henry said. “You know, Luke,” he went on. “Just yesterday I was talking about you to the principal of the school. A nice school. They’ll be glad to have you. I said you’d want to plunge right in. That’s right, isn’t it? No use giving yourself a chance to notice any break with things as you knew them in the city. Unders
tand, son? Plunge right in with a good heart.”

  He sounded as if he had it all figured out, and indeed he had, too, for Uncle Henry was a man who liked to accept responsibility. When he had realized that he was going to have the responsibility of rearing his dead brother’s boy he had gravely considered all that was involved. Being a practical man he liked working according to a plan. His brother, the doctor, had gone to college, but Uncle Henry, who had only a high-school education, was proud of the way he had trained his own mind and the success he had made out of life. A boy like Luke was to have the advantage of his experience. A boy should grow up to be sensible, shrewd, clear-thinking, hard-headed, with an instinctive knowledge of what was useful in the world and what was false, sentimental and unnecessary. In the last week Uncle Henry had read three books on child psychology. In one of these books he had found paragraphs that he had read aloud to his wife with approval. “This man at least offers a glimmer of common sense,” he had said. “And I know it’s good sense because it checks with my own experience.”

  But as Uncle Henry walked along, exuding confidence and authority, Luke drew away shyly, trying to figure him out. He knew Uncle Henry was being kind to him, and yet he kept asking himself how it was that a man so eager to be kind and friendly could be indifferent to what happened to a fine old dog like Dan. It might be that Uncle Henry didn’t believe the dog was important to anybody. Maybe if Uncle Henry could see that Dan was important to him, Luke, then Dan might become important again to Uncle Henry. He suddenly felt closer to Uncle Henry.

  Chatting cheerfully, they washed up together and Uncle Henry asked him how he liked his room, and when they were drying their hands he said he would go up to the room then and see if it looked like a satisfactory boy’s room now Luke was in it. After he had inspected the attic room carefully and had examined all Luke’s extra clothing, he decided that a satisfactory boy’s room ought to have a desk at the window where a boy could study alone and undisturbed. “Yes, a desk by all means,” he said, and taking a little black book from his hip pocket he said aloud as he wrote carefully, “One desk to go by window in Luke’s room. Get it tomorrow.

  “Ah, I see you’re a reader,” he said, pointing to the bureau where Aunt Helen had laid the two books Luke had brought with him. “What’s this one?” he asked, picking up the pirate novel of days on the Spanish Main. “Mm. A pirate story.” Then he began making regretful little clucking noises in his throat. “Aren’t you a little old for that kind of stuff, Luke?”

  But the collection of fairy stories by Hans Andersen really disturbed him. His smile wasn’t indulgent; it was regretful and pitying, as if he were wondering whether he should say anything at the moment. “Hm, I see. Fairy tales. Do you like fairy tales, Luke?”

  “I’ve read that book twice, Uncle Henry,” Luke said proudly.

  “I see. And did your father like your reading fairy tales?”

  “Oh, sure, Uncle Henry. When I was small he used to read them to me.”

  “That surprises me,” Uncle Henry said frankly, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, it really does,” he added, pondering the matter gravely.

  “Why does it surprise you, Uncle Henry?”

  “Your father was an educated man, Luke.”

  “He certainly was.”

  “Tell me, did you grow up believing in Santa Claus, too?”

  “I sure did,” Luke said with a grin, for he thought his uncle was kidding him.

  “And suddenly there was no Santa Claus, eh?” Uncle Henry asked with a shrug.

  “Oh, I just grew out of it.”

  “I wonder, I really wonder,” Uncle Henry said half to himself.

  “Wonder what, Uncle Henry?”

  “Does a boy ever grow out of it?” he asked sadly. Luke knew then that his uncle was not kidding. “You’re a sincere boy, Luke,” he went on, his deep voice taking on a tone of persuasive authority. “I like a boy to be sincere. I like a man to be sincere.

  Sincere and mature.”

  “Sincere and mature. Yeah,” Luke said.

  “Sit down, and I’ll try and explain. After all, this is important and I’m glad the subject came up,” he said, looking at the book he held in both hands. “Come on, sit down beside me, Luke.”

  Bewildered by his uncle’s grave tone, and with his eyes on the book which suddenly seemed to become something lewd and vulgar, Luke sat down apprehensively beside his uncle.

  “I don’t know if your father gave much time to such things,” Uncle Henry said deprecatingly. “Of course a lot depends on the kind of man he wanted you to be. I take it he wanted you to be sincere and mature . . .”

  “What’s wrong with that book, Uncle Henry?”

  “Fairy stories. What’s wrong with fairy stories? Well, that’s a fair question,” he said briskly, for he was on a subject that was dear to his heart and on which he believed he held the soundest of all opinions. “What I’m going to say, Luke,” he went on solemnly, “has the support of the most progressive minds in the whole world.” With a sudden clearing of his throat he asked, “My boy, what would you say is the matter with the world?”

  “I don’t know,” Luke said, looking puzzled. “Up until a while ago I didn’t think there was much wrong with it.”

  “Naturally, naturally. Yes, but you know that history has always been a mess. People have always been fools, Luke. People have crazy, twisted minds. They’re afraid of each other and afraid of being alive. Afraid of the world, Luke. Understand?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Of course you don’t understand.”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “I’m going to tell you why everybody gets so mixed up, Luke. Now’s the time, as I have this book here in my hands, eh? Here’s what’s the matter with the world and most of the people in it. They like telling lies to each other. Do you see?”

  “I don’t tell lies, Uncle Henry,” Luke said guardedly. He didn’t know what was coming, but he felt that an assault was being made upon him and something important was going to be taken away from him.

  “Luke,” Uncle Henry said, warming up and emphasizing his argument with emphatic gestures with his big right fist, “you have the root of the whole trouble right here in this fairy book. What is it? Simply lies. For thousands of years men have loved to tell lies to each other about the world. Isn’t that awful, Luke? And worse still, mind you, they have loved to tell lies to their children. Why, your young head at this moment is probably full sof lies.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” Luke said, in the same guarded watchful tone. “Only . . . only what lies, Uncle Henry?”

  “That’s good. A good question, my boy. Well, people make up silly sentimental legends and myths to explain things to children. Listen, Luke, were you ever told there was a man in the moon?”

  “Well, I guess, I mean . . .” Luke nodded, feeling ashamed an embarrassed. “I used to think I could see the man in the moon. Only I know now there isn’t a man in the moon, Uncle Henry.”

  “And was thunder supposed to come when an angry god pounded on his shield, my boy? Oh, sure, sure. And a rainbow, I supposed, is a promise of something good about to happen! How in the world are you going to adjust yourself later on in real life if you believe these myths? You see the danger, Luke?”

  “What’s the danger, Uncle Henry?” he asked, deeply impressed by his uncle’s high seriousness.

  “All your life you could go on being dreamy. I think you may be a little dreamy now. Your life could be so unhappy always reaching for consoling lies, superstitious and ignorant lies. Ah, no, my boy, get into the hard bright world. Face the facts, Luke. Always the facts. Understand?”

  “I think I do,” the boy said gravely. While they nodded solemnly to each other he was suddenly trying to grasp the fact that millions of people for thousands of years had been mixing each other up with lies and illusions and superstitions and doing all kinds of crazy things to each other – all because they were afraid to live in Uncle Henry’
s clear bright world. He tried to grasp the enormity of this tragedy but couldn’t because he didn’t believe in it.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Henry consoled him as he smiled and stood up with the book, which Luke was never to see again, still under his arm. “We’ll look after you. You’ll soon get a good practical view of things.”

  “That’ll be swell, Uncle Henry.”

  “When I was a boy I read biographies,” Uncle Henry said, leading the way downstairs. “Good useful biographies. Nothing but biographies. Read about men like Ford and Edison. Splendid useful lives. We’ve got a library there in town, Luke. I’ll get you a card.”

  As he followed his uncle downstairs Luke had his eye on the book, which was still tucked under Uncle Henry’s arm. And it wasn’t that he minded losing the book, for he had read it twice anyway, but he felt that something else was being taken away from him, something he needed which he could not define right then, but which was the splendor and insight of the imagination.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An Easy Understanding

  It was hard for Luke to feel at home at the dinner table. Aunt Helen talked all the time and Uncle Henry’s authoritative personality seemed to intimidate him, and for another thing, Luke did not understand the language they were using, even though he understood every single word. He wanted to hide his shyness and his loneliness. When Uncle Henry had gone out to the veranda to smoke his cigar, Luke asked his aunt if he could take the dog up to his room.

  There he felt at ease because the dog was at ease with him, and soon he began to go through the motions of getting used to the room. He sat on the hard chair by the wall; he stretched out on the bed; then he looked at himself in the dresser mirror; he walked slowly around the room and then invited Dan to sit on the bed with him.

  “Not so bad, eh, Dan?” he asked, and the dog agreed with three impulsive thumps of his tail on the bed. “I think you’re my friend,” Luke said, and a remarkably intelligent expression shone in the dog’s amber eye; his head twisted a little to one side; the right forepaw came reaching out for Luke’s hand. In the world there were some people who could talk to animals, Luke believed, and understand everything they said. Now he wondered if he were such a person. “Dan,” he querried, putting his head close up to the dog’s, “were you waiting and knowing I was coming? It’s important, Dan. Tell me.”